7. 7 #2
“Just waiting for my ride,” she says lightly, glancing toward the door. “Grabbing lunch and coffee for my husband, too.”
Her smile is easy, but her eyes linger on me too long, like she’s trying to pin something down. “What about you? Any plans?”
“Not really,” I answer, feeling her curiosity like a weight. The urge to fidget creeps in, but I hold my ground. The bell above the door jingles, snapping the moment in half. Imogen’s face brightens.
“Oh, my ride’s here.” She waves someone over. “Zoe, this is my brother-in-law, Michael Price.”
I glance up and freeze.
Of course it’s him .
It’s true when they say in a small town, everybody knows everyone, and apparently, fate has a twisted sense of humour. Out of all the cafés, out of all the people to walk through that door, it had to be him. The cocky bastard who fixed my car two days ago.
I take an involuntary step back as he approaches, broad shoulders cutting a clean line through the space, every movement carrying that easy swagger that says he knows exactly how people look at him. And that smug expression—God, it’s like it’s etched into his face.
His eyes lock on mine, holding them for a beat too long, and the corner of his mouth curves.
“We’ve met,” I say, my tone flat enough to strip paint.
“Nice to see you again, Freckles,” he drawls, leaning casually against the counter like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Imogen’s gaze flicks between us, curiosity playing across her face.
“Freckles?” She questions, then her eyes widen. “Oh! You fixed her car the other day?”
“Yep,” Michael answers before I can. Arms crossed, posture relaxed—too relaxed.
I glance at Imogen, now feeling unsettled.
So, he’s mentioned me? To her? The thought is strange, a little uncomfortable.
What exactly did he say? I doubt it was flattering.
I wasn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows the day we met.
Probably just complained about my attitude. I’ve heard that one before.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, looking right at me. “Not everyone can work miracles on a car that close to falling apart.”
“I already said thank you,” I reply, my tone clipped. “Not saying it again. And miracles? Please.” My gaze drifts to the faded red Commodore parked out front. “That’s rich coming from someone who drives that.”
His eyes narrow. “How do you know I drive that?”
I cross my arms, meeting his smirk with one of my own. “Maybe because that wasn’t parked out front five minutes ago, and you’re holding the matching keys. Or maybe…” I tilt my head, letting the pause drag. “…it’s just a vibe.”
Imogen snorts beside me, trying to cover it with a sip of her coffee.
Michael’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “If you must know, that is a work car. I don’t drive cars.”
“A mechanic who doesn’t drive cars. Makes perfect sense.”
His smirk grows, and it’s slow and infuriating. “I ride a bike.”
Something flutters low in my stomach, the kind of reaction I have no interest in entertaining. Of course, he rides a bike. He winks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and my pulse betrays me with a stumble.
I hate it. I hate that his jawline is too sharp for his own good, that his eyes are the kind of light hazel you remember without meaning to, that even the buzz cut somehow works on him.
“What is happening right now?” Imogen asks, glancing between us like she’s watching a tennis match.
“Nothing,” I say too quickly, reaching for my drink. “I should go.”
Before either of them can respond, I’m halfway to the door, the bell above it jingling as I step outside. So much for keeping to myself.
I watch as Zoe disappears out the door, her ponytail swishing, her spine straight like she’s got something to prove. Like she refuses to be the one to back down first.
She sticks out in this town—doesn’t belong here, not really.
Not with that sleek black top tucked into high-waisted jeans that look too damn polished for a place like this.
Even her heeled boots are different, all style and no scuff marks.
Like she walked straight out of the city and into the wrong scene.
And yet, she doesn’t seem lost. Just… out of place.
Imogen exhales beside me, dragging my attention back.
She’s watching me with that sharp, knowing look she always gets when she thinks she’s figured something out.
“Well,” she says, drawing out the word. “That was interesting.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What was?”
She snorts. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the way you two snap at each other like it’s foreplay?”
I scoff, shaking my head. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” She leans against the counter, stirring her coffee slowly, like she’s giving me time to admit something. When I don’t, she tilts her head toward the door. “She seems lonely.”
That catches me off guard.
“Lonely?” I repeat, frowning. “She doesn’t seem like the type who’d care about that.”
Imogen shrugs. “Yeah, well. People who don’t care don’t usually put that much effort into pretending they don’t.
” I glance back toward the door, even though Zoe’s long gone.
I don’t know why I’m still thinking about her.
Maybe it’s because she doesn’t belong here but refuses to act like it.
Or maybe it’s the way she looks at me, like she expects me to be just another asshole in her way.
And for some reason, I want to prove her wrong.