Page 17 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mechanic

“I know. That’s the problem.”

He looks at me for a long moment. The furrow between his brows is still there, and I’m starting to understand it’s never going away, and I don’t want it to. It’s his face. It’s the face of a man who frowns at the world because the world has never given him a reason to do anything else.

Until now.

“Your coupons are everywhere,” he says.

“I know.”

“People are stepping on them.”

“I know.”

“We should probably pick them up.”

“Probably.”

Neither of us moves.

He leans down and kisses me. Slow, steady, unhurried. Not the parking lot kiss, not the mountain kiss. Something different. Something that feels like a decision, made in broad daylight, in front of anyone who cares to look.

When he pulls back, Lea is standing in the doorway of the coffee shop, arms crossed, grinning. “About time,” she calls out. “Three days ago, this man didn’t know how to smile. I’d like to thank whoever fixed that.”

Beck’s ears turn red. Actually red. The grumpiest man in Copper Peak, blushing in a cobblestone courtyard because a coffee shop owner called him out.

I laugh. A big, open, out-of-proportion laugh. A laugh that bounces off the old stone walls and fills every corner.

He looks down at me and the furrow softens, just a fraction, and I know this is it. Not because it’s perfect. Because it’s real. Because he sees me and I see him and neither of us is invisible anymore.

I bend down and start picking up coupons. He watches me for a second, then sighs, drops into a crouch, and helps.

“I still don’t need hiking boots,” he says.

“Everyone needs hiking boots.”

“I need to go finish a brake job.”

“After you help me pick up coupons.”

“This is my life now,” he mutters. But he keeps picking them up.

And when he hands me the stack, our fingers brush. His hand is rough and warm and steady, and he doesn’t pull back.

He never pulls back.

EPILOGUE

BECK: 5 YEARS LATER

Five years.

Five years since a girl called the wrong number and described an e-bike as “the green kind,” and I’m still not over it. I don’t think I’m supposed to be. I think some people walk into your life and rearrange the furniture, and you just live in the new layout forever.

Callie Meyer. Still not used to that either.

We got married on the mountain. First snowfall of that year, mid-October, earlier than anyone expected. She’d called me at the shop that morning, voice shaking, and said “it’s snowing” like she was announcing a miracle. I said “I know.” She said “marry me today.” I said “I already have the rings in my truck.”

I’d been carrying them for two weeks. She didn’t know that.