“Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you,” he says as he walks towards his truck. “If you need another ride, let me know. You have my number, right?”
Winking, I say, “Group chat.” I’m guilty of being an over-texter. I have a lot to say; I can’t help it.
“Right. How could I forget?” He shakes his head and snorts. “Have a good day, Beck.”
Standing in place, I watch him pull out onto the street and drive away. I’m about to continue walking towards Inkfluence when I catch Brian watching me through the window. Raising my hand, I smile and give him a little finger wave. I would prefer to give him the middle finger for being such a meddling asshole, but refrain. Not even he can ruin my good mood this morning.
Six
This is the second time in the last twenty-four hours that I have seen Beck upset by messages on her phone, and it bothers me. Why I even care bothers me more.
As I contemplate this, I take my first sip of coffee and hum with appreciation.
Beck is right. I am a bit of a bear before I have my first coffee of the day. Not that I would ever admit that to her. I have a perfectly good coffee pot at home—that I know how to use—but there’s something about getting this first one from Maggie’s before heading into the office. It always tastes better.
Placing the hot coffee back into the cup holder, I open the paper bag one-handed to grab my sandwich and feel a second container inside. Glancing down and then back towards the road, I pull out the contents. My usual breakfast sandwich and one Black Forest cupcake with a Post-it note attached to the clear plastic lid.
You deserve something sweet too. Enjoy!
—Maggie.
A smile forms on my face before I take a bite of my sandwich. I’m not sure that I agree with her, but I appreciate the gift, so I’ll make sure I enjoy the treat—later.
I have time before I need to be at work. My first appointment isn’t until ten thirty, so when I see Beck’s car inside the open bay doors at Harper Auto, I pull in and park.
When Dillon hears my door close, he raises his head from beneath the hood of Beck’s car and tips his chin in greeting. Pulling a rag from his back pocket, he cleans his hands as best he can while walking towards me.
He has always been a bit of a loner and hard to get to know, but I like him.
“What’s the verdict?” I ask him, leaning my back against the hood of my truck. I know absolutely nothing about car repairs, but I trust him to tell me how it is.
“It’s a piece of shit. I don’t know where she bought it from, but there is no way it could have passed a safety inspection. She’s brought it in for work three times since then.” He shakes his head in disgust as he unzips the front of his coveralls and ties the arms around his waist. “I’m surprised it has lasted her as long as it has, to be honest.”
“That bad, eh?” I scratch the side of my neck. “Can you fix it?”
“Fuck, no,” he snorts. “Even if I could fix the engine—which I won’t—rust is eating away at the undercarriage. Someone screwed her over good.”
I’m contemplating this news when I hear the rumble of Carson’s white Chevy Trail Boss before I see it pull into the parking lot. The man jumps out of the cab and slams the door. Dressed in flannel, faded blue jeans, and worn brown cowboy boots, he’s really leaning into owning a farm lately.
“What’s going on here? Did you forget to invite me to this meeting of the minds?” he asks, striding towards us.
“We didn’t forget,” Dillon mutters loud enough for him to hear. “We just don’t want you here.”
Carson’s mouth drops. “You wound me,” he gasps with his hand on his chest. “I thought we were friends.”
“Unlikely,” Dillon deadpans.
A moment later, Riot’s truck pulls up beside Carson’s. He rolls down the window and rests his arm on the frame. “Is this gathering something I should be concerned about?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Beck’s car broke down last night. I just asked Dillon if he could repair it,” I inform my friends.
“I can’t,” Dillon says firmly, with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Is she okay?” Riot’s brows furrow as he pulls his long brown hair back and secures it with an elastic at the nape of his neck.
“Yeah, she’s fine,” I reassure him. Riot is the perfect example of why you should never judge a book by its cover. His large build and long hair make him appear intimidating, but he has the kindest and most caring heart of anyone I know.
“Interesting. The pieces are falling into place now,” Carson says with a mischievous look crossing his face.
