Page 2 of Stuck with the Hero Next Door

I winced. "That's the sound of doom, isn't it?"

"Could be. Looks like your alternator's fried." He glanced at me. "We're about thirty miles from Everwood. That's the closest town with a shop. You mind if I tow you in?"

I hesitated. Miller's Pass was the goal. But it wasn't exactly rushing to meet me.

"Sure," I said, trying to sound casual. "Let's go wherever the alternators roam."

As he rigged up the towbar, I climbed into the passenger seat of his truck. It smelled like pine and coffee and a man who probably knew how to build a bookshelf without a YouTube video to walk him through it.

Tim slid in beside me, radio humming something country and upbeat. "Jordan's at the station now. I'll give him a call."

"Thanks." I pulled Mom's scarf from my bag and held it in my lap, the threadbare stars soft under my fingers. She'd worn it on her last, first day of school. She would've told me this breakdown was a "story in the making."

And that I needed a little detour. To see if I still believed in Plan A.

Outside, the road wound its way through soft hills, the sky blushing with peach and rose as the sun dipped lower. I didn't know what Everwood was, but if it had coffee, truck parts, and even a shred of cell service, it was good enough for now.

I rested my head against the cool window, watching the blur of fences and sky. "Okay, universe," I whispered. "Let's see what you've got."

The Everwood town sign came into view, as if it had been hand-carved by someone's grandfather. Faded green paint, a friendly bear paw, and a few stubborn pinecones stuck to the base. It read: Welcome to Everwood. Est. 1883. Probably hadn't been updated since.

Tim glanced over. "We're almost there. Town’s got one diner, one gas station, and one nosy hardware store owner who thinks WD-40 can fix anything short of heartbreak."

"Sounds charming."

"It's a nice place. Folks mean well. They just...come on a little strong."

My stomach dipped. Not because of the town, but because of everything else. No job yet. No Miller's Pass. No plan that didn't sound like it came with its own survival guide.

We rolled down the main street—if two blocks of storefronts counted—and I caught glimpses of places I hadn't expected to care about: a florist with paper hearts taped to the window, a bookstore with a crooked "Storytime Today" sign, a diner glowing soft yellow like it was always open, even if no one was inside.

It was...cozy.

Dangerously cozy.

This wasn't my destination. I just hoped Miller's Pass—if I ever got there—was half as charming.

Tim pulled into the service station just as the sun tucked behind a pine-covered ridge. The garage bay door was open, a soft hum of music trailing out with the scent of motor oil and coffee.

"Jordan!" Tim called, hopping out. "Got one for you."

A man appeared from inside, wiping his hands on a rag. Clean-cut, maybe mid-thirties, with sleeves rolled up and a tired smile that said he'd already seen too many broken cars this week. I could see another man just inside the streak-free window, but he didn't come outside, just stared through the glass. Another customer?

Jordan's gaze slid to my car, then to me. "What happened?"

"Alternator," Tim answered. “Cassie here is on her way to Miller’s Pass.”

Jordan nodded. "Well, you're not going anywhere fast. I'll check, but I'm guessing we'll need to order parts for this old thing. Might take a few days."

"A few?" My voice wobbled.

"Maybe a week. Old truck, rare parts." He winced like it hurt to say it.

I stepped back, trying to breathe past the rising knot in my throat. A week meant missed opportunities. Missed potential interviews. It meant...what? Starting over on the starting over?

"There's an inn," Jordan added quickly. "Janet runs it. It's clean, safe, and she bakes when she's stressed, which is often."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.