Chapter 16

ZANDER

The music thumps out a bruising rhythm in my earbuds. A hard beat pairs with a screaming guitar and angry lyrics. Energized, I welcome the weight of the wrench in my hand and the distraction of fixing Getty’s car to quiet the noise in my head.

But at least this noise differs from the racket that’s been filling my head as of late. Giving me a reprieve of sorts.

My mind is in constant overdrive. The photos play on repeat through it like negatives on a reel—a ghost of a memory I can almost see but not clearly.

I prefer the almost-there ones to the in-living-color nightmares any day.

With my head under the hood and grease on my hands, I feel a little more connected to my old life. Feel a bit like my old self as I work on the engine.

Something to my right catches my attention and I startle when I look up to find a woman standing a few feet away. Her hands are clasped in front of her, an envelope somewhere in their mix, a nervous smile on her lips as she stares at me.

Stepping out from beneath the hood, I take my earbuds out and wipe my hands on a red rag and wait for her to say something. Anything. But she just stands there, feet fidgeting, and smile widening while her cheeks slowly turn red.

Fangirl down. It’s the term my brothers use when they come to a race and witness the tongue-tied, finger-twisting, feet-shifting phenomenon that happens occasionally when I come face-to-face with female racing fans. The pang of regret is there instantly. Over how I’ve shut my brothers out. But I needed to. And I know they’ll forgive me. This is nothing compared with what we’ve all been through before.

“Can I help you?” I ask as I take a step forward.

“Yes. I’m—hi—hello,” she says, and then rolls her eyes with a chuckle as she smooths down the skirt over her hips. “I’m Mable from Mable’s Closet in town.”

The storefront comes to mind. Resale clothes on mannequins. Lacy curtains that look like they belong in a funeral home. A local townsperson or two always going in or out. Quaint. Classy. Completely feminine. And definitely a place I’ve steered clear of.

“Oh yes. Hi. Zander,” I say as I hold out my hand and then lift my eyebrows in apology for its greased-up state. She reaches out anyway—a nervous chuckle, cheeks turning redder—and shakes it. “Can’t say that I’ve been in there, but I know the store. What can I do for you?”

“Everyone here on the island is so excited that you’re here. I haven’t seen this much chatter since . . . since I can’t remember when. Maybe when Dolly Parton came through a few years back.”

My ego dies a slow, silent death. A few months off the gas pedal and I’ve become irrelevant enough that I’m being compared to Dolly Parton? But my reaction goes unnoticed as Mable continues on without a care in the world and without any need for me to be an active participant in our conversation.

“I mean you should see the phone calls and texts that buzz around Main Street when you go on your morning run. Or to the hardware store. I mean the thought right there—of you in a tool belt and no shirt—is enough to make the women around here suddenly need to nail something. I mean hammer something. Or . . . you know what I mean.”

I can’t help it. I throw my head back and laugh at this frumpy woman with round cheeks and a kind smile who means no harm with her ramblings that are making me blush. In an instant I realize just how small of a town this really is and how oblivious I was to everything going on.

She looks at me, lips in a perfect-shaped O and eyes narrowing as I shake my head back and forth. “You are exactly what I needed right now.” My smile widens with each passing second.

“Well, I am a married woman, but I always wanted to try the cougar thing.” She offers me a wink. “I’ve never been town gossip before . . . just the one spreading it, but you’re easy on the eyes . . . and I could probably teach you a thing or two. . . .”

“I like you, Mable from Mable’s Closet,” I laugh, and think about how much I already love this new friend I’ve made.

“I like you too, hottie, as the ladies are calling you in town.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “How was the food at Mario’s last night? That new cook they hired sure can whip up some mangia bene.”

And once again I’m reminded of the size of this town and how everyone knows everyone else’s business. It’s definitely annoying and yet a part of me likes the predictability.

“Yes, ma’am.” I nod. “Now, I know you didn’t come here to talk about pizza, so what can I do for you?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m sure you have plenty of stuff to do and I’m here blathering away taking up your time. I came to see Getty. Is she home?”

“I’m sorry, Mable, but she’s at work right now. Took an extra shift. Is there anything I can help you with?” I ask out of courtesy, surprised the town gossipers didn’t already know Getty’s whereabouts.

“No. Yes.” I can sense her hesitancy. “She normally stops by once a week to pick up her check and so I wanted to make sure she was okay but feel stupid now because obviously she has you here to occupy her time now and—”

“Check?” My interest is piqued. “She works at the store?”

“Oh no, honey. That’s silly. I sell all of those designer clothes she has on eBay for her. I’d do it for free for her, but she gets upset if I don’t take ten percent for my time. And so this here is a check for that pile she brought me last week to try to get the money to fix that heap over there you’re working on.”

Her words take a moment to sink in. And before I can fully process everything, Mable continues on. “What I’d give to have her eye. To be able to go to an estate sale and find these beauties . . . except I’d have a much harder time parting with them.”

“She sure does have a good eye, doesn’t she?” I murmur in agreement even though I already know she hasn’t gone to any estate sales.

The piles of clothes around her room. My assumption that she was a spoiled trust fund kid with so many designer threads she didn’t need to take care of them. The obvious burner cell phone. The lack of interest in having Internet access.

She’s not just starting over after a messy divorce. She’s running from someone.

I’m such an asshole. Like a royal prick of an asshole.

It’s the thought that’s on repeat in my mind as I try to wrap up the conversation with Mable, who keeps chatting away.

Getty’s not a spoiled brat in the least. Her only use for the clothes from her past is to sell them to help secure her new future.

Like selling clothes to get her car repaired. Talk about feeling like a jerk after my “call Daddy and ask for money” comment the other night.

Yes. That’s me. Asshole with a capital A.

“I can give her the check, Mable. I’ll just set it inside on the counter for her.” It’s the least I can do. Her eyes narrow, and I kind of like that she cares enough about Getty that she’s worrying over whether to trust me. If she only knew the purse I win in a single victory on the track. “I assure you I’m not going to take it.”

“You sure?”

I should feel insulted, but I don’t. “I promise.”

She looks down at the sealed envelope in her hand and then extends it out to me. “Okay, well, you make sure she gets it. She’s a sweet girl and deserves for good things to happen for her.”

“Agreed. I’m glad she has you looking out for her, Mable.”

*   *   *

I let out a whoop as Getty’s car sputters to life. It may have taken longer than I figured it would between Mable’s pit stop and a quick run over to the auto parts store for some oil to service her car while I was at it, but mission accomplished.

And I’ll take anything to make me feel useful, considering my carpentry skills are definitely still being called into question and I feel like a fish out of water away from my everyday life. That damn deck is going to be the death of me.

When I rev the engine a few times, the sound reaffirms that I’m a bit less of a dick since Getty can save that money Mable brought her today for something more important, like treating herself.

After I let the car idle for a few minutes to make sure she’s running okay, I turn her off in order to get cleaned up in time to pick Getty up from her shift. I owe her an apology but don’t know how to go about bringing it up without the walls around her going up too.

When I slide out of the car and out from behind the raised hood, I do a double take at the black luxury town car parked across the street with dark tinted windows. I stare at it momentarily, thinking how out of place it seems in this quaint little town, before shutting the hood and heading for the shower.

Time to eat some crow, Donavan.

Maybe I need a beer first to make it go down a little smoother.

Or maybe I just want to watch the woman who’s pouring it for me.

My bet’s on the one that wears the sexy socks.