Page 6 of Stuck with the Hero Next Door

"You're dressed for not being stranded on the side of the road," I said. "That's good enough."

Janet handed her the crocheted scarf hanging on the rack as if it were tradition. Cassie took it slowly, still watching us like she expected a hidden camera crew to leap out from behind the fern.

"I guess," she said cautiously, "steak is better than awkwardly eating cookies alone in my room."

I grinned. "That's the Everwood spirit."

She nodded. "Let me grab my coat."

As she disappeared back upstairs, Janet gave me a smug look that screamed, "You owe me."

I didn't argue.

Cassie came down the stairs ten minutes later with a coat that looked like it had weathered a few too many windstorms and a scarf—her own—knotted around her neck like she was gearing up for a voyage across the Arctic. She handed Janet's "nobody comes dressed for a chilly evening in the mountains" scarf back with a smile. But there was a glint in her eye now—she'd sized up Everwood and decided to give the place a second chance. Or maybe she'd just decided not to run for the hills. Either way, I'd take it.

Janet, never one to leave well enough alone, pressed a small container into her hands on the way out. "Cookies for the road," she said with a wink. "For emergencies. Or for Levi's driving."

"I drive just fine," I muttered.

"That's what all the overconfident ones say," Janet replied.

Cassie laughed—actual, real laughter—and the sound landed somewhere deep in my ribs. Unexpected and oddly welcome.

I held the door open as we stepped onto the porch. The evening air had turned cool, with just enough bite to remind you that fall was serious business in Everwood. My truck was parked at the curb, looking like the battered old workhorse it was.

Cassie eyed it like it might bite.

"Don't worry," I said. "She's got personality, but she's solid."

"I feel like that should be your Tinder bio."

I chuckled. "Only if I wanted to attract women who think rust is a love language."

I opened her door and offered a hand without thinking. To my surprise, she took it. Didn't squeeze, didn't linger. Progress.

The cab of the truck smelled faintly of pine from the air freshener I'd wedged into the vents last week and stronger still of the leftover half of BLT from lunch I'd forgotten to remove. She buckled her seatbelt like a soldier preparing for maneuvers.

As we rolled down Main Street, the town put on its usual evening show—porch lights twinkling on one by one, an older couple walking hand-in-hand past the library, the faint sound of a guitar drifting from somewhere behind the diner. Cassie watched it all, quiet and thoughtful.

"Seems like a Hallmark set," she murmured finally.

"Only with more cranky livestock and fewer spontaneous dance numbers."

She smiled again, but this one came easier.

We pulled into Will's gravel lot, headlights sweeping across a few familiar trucks and the Collins's rusted-out minivan that had been threatening to die for six years and counting. I killed the engine and turned toward her.

"You sure you're up for this?"

She glanced at the warm lights spilling from the restaurant windows, then back at me. "If the cornbread's as good as you say, I'll risk it."

I grinned. "That's the spirit. And it is said to be the best darn cornbread east of…wherever."

She hopped down from the truck with more confidence this time. I followed close behind, already hearing the low buzz of conversation and the live band from inside. As we reached the door, I paused.

"Just so you know," I said, holding it open, "if you order the steak rare, there's a good chance it'll still have fur on it."

That earned me a full-on grin. "Noted."