I found myself thinking about that old guitar again. How her eyes had lit up when she saw it. How she asked about it with genuine curiosity. She didn't pry or push; she just wanted to understand. It was something I wasn't used to—someone caring enough to ask but not demanding answers.
The carburetor cleaned and reassembled; I moved on to checking the timing belt. It was frayed at the edges, worn from years of use. I replaced it with a new one from my stockpile, tightening it just enough to keep everything running smoothly.
The rhythm of work was comforting. Each completed task felt like a small victory against the chaos inside me. I could control this; I could fix this car and make it run like new again.
I wiped sweat from my brow, smearing grease across my forehead in the process. The garage had grown warmer from my efforts, or maybe it was just me getting lost in the work.
Time passed unnoticed as I worked through each issue with the Impala. It was late—or early—by the time I finally stepped back to admire my handiwork. The engine purred like a contented cat when I turned the key in the ignition.
Exhausted but satisfied, I leaned against the workbench and took a deep breath. The night's labor had paid off; at least something in this world still made sense when you put enough effort into it.
Beth’s invitation hung in my mind like an unanswered question, but for now, I'd found some peace in the hum of an engine well-tuned.
A few days went by in a haze of grease and gears. I poured myself into Beth’s friend’s grandfather’s car, fixing every little issue it had. A couple of people came in for an oil change, but that was it. The days dragged without Beth’s bright chatter filling the garage.
She'd completely changed everything, and it bothered me. My routine was off, disrupted by thoughts of Beth and her damn cookies. Her laughter echoed in my head, and her smile seemed to linger in the corners of my vision.
Even so, I found myself missing her. I couldn't shake the feeling that I wanted to see her again. Maybe go to that cookie contest she mentioned. But what would I do there? Stand around like a fool?
I wasn't even sure.
Maybe I could bring her that heater she'd been talking about needing for the car. It’d be practical, something useful.
I shook myself out of my head, frustration bubbling up again. I needed to stop this nonsense. But…
Before I knew it, my hand was reaching for my truck keys. My fingers closed around the cold metal, and I didn't give myself time to think. I headed straight for the door and climbed into my truck.
The drive to the Hearth & Harvest Café felt both too long and too short. My heart pounded as I pulled into a parking spot out front. The warm glow from inside spilled onto the sidewalk, welcoming and homely.
I hesitated for a moment, gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turned white. This was ridiculous. But then, Beth's face flashed in my mind again—her genuine smile, those curious eyes—and I found myself pushing open the door and stepping out into the crisp evening air.
With each step toward the café, my resolve strengthened. Maybe I'd bring her that heater another time. Tonight, I just needed to see her.
I opened the door and stepped inside. The warmth enveloped me immediately, along with the scent of peppermint mochas and freshly baked scones.
There she was, bustling behind the counter with a grace that seemed effortless. Her eyes met mine, widening slightly in surprise before softening into that familiar smile.
"You came," she said.
"Yeah."
It was the most I could say.
Beth beamed; for her, it seemed to be enough.
Chapter9
Beth
“Let me get you something to drink,” I said quickly before he could refuse and leave. I darted behind the counter, heart pounding against my ribcage.
The rich aroma of cocoa wafted up as I poured hot chocolate into a mug. The scent of melted chocolate and steamed milk filled the air, mixed with a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg. It was comforting and familiar, yet today it made me more anxious than usual.
I couldn’t understand why I was so nervous. This was just Daryl—gruff and quiet Daryl. Yet, every time our paths crossed, he lingered in my thoughts longer than I cared to admit.
Carefully topping the drink with a swirl of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cocoa powder, I took a deep breath before heading back to his table.
“Here you go,” I said, handing him the mug with what I hoped was a steady hand.
