Chapter 10
Hunter
The clatter of a socket wrench echoed off the concrete floor of the shop as I straightened up and stretched my back.
I’d left Paige’s house and gone straight to work.
My shirt was stuck to me in places I didn't want to think about, and there was a smear of grease across my forearm.
It was a warm day, and the fan overhead might as well have been stirring soup.
Cassidy's Automotive looked exactly as it had since Dad took over the place from my grandfather when I was a little kid. The walls were lined with tools, pegboards filled with wrenches, and sockets sorted by size. An old fridge hummed in the corner, covered in fading bumper stickers and notes scrawled on taped-up paper. The smell of motor oil and rubber was baked into the concrete, and the front office always had a faint aroma of coffee and air freshener. I loved that it rarely ever changed in here, but I wouldn’t mind the addition of an air conditioner.
Dad leaned against the open garage door, sipping coffee like he didn’t notice the heat at all. “You’re quiet today. Everything okay?”
I shrugged. “Just thinking.”
“That wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain bartender we both know, would it?”
I shot him a look, and he grinned over the rim of his travel mug.
“You think I don't notice things? The look on your face is intense.”
“It’s complicated,” I muttered as I wiped my hands on a rag, stepped outside into the morning air, and squinted up at the sky.
“Complicated? Pfft. You look like you're waiting on a delivery that ain’t coming,” he observed. He held his mug of coffee and looked every bit the grizzly bear he'd always been—hair in a ponytail, beard like a lumberjack, coveralls pulled down at the top and tied around his waist.
“Just thinking,” I repeated. “Trying to figure stuff out is all.”
“Don't hurt yourself.”
I grinned, grabbed my water bottle, and wandered over to sit on the steps.
“You know, when I turned forty,” he said, lowering himself beside me with a groan, “your mother gave me a card that said, 'You're not old, you're vintage.' Then she made me a cake and we spent the rest of the day with you kids.”
I chuckled. “I remember. I miss her.”
“Paige?” He asked, confused.
“Mom.” She died when I was barely a teenager. Cancer. She’d hardly been sick before she was gone. It had been that quick.
“Ahh, I miss her too. Always will.”
“You never dated anyone after her.”
He fell quiet, gazing out over the patch of sunlit yard as if searching for something hidden in the shadows of the fence. The silence hung heavy between us.
I fiddled with the cap of my water bottle, unsure what to say—unsure if words could even reach the place he had drifted to. Grief doesn’t ask for permission; it just arrives, settles in, and makes itself comfortable.
“Why would I?” he finally said, his eyes shifting to mine. “She was the love of my life. The mother of my babies. I’ll never find anyone better, and I’ll never be happier than I was when she was here.”
“Aren’t you lonely?”
He let out a low chuckle, though it sounded rough around the edges.
“She used to say I could fix anything, but I never figured out how to fix a broken heart.” My throat tightened.
I wanted to reach over, to say something that might fill the space she’d left behind, but the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, we both sat there, letting the sun warm our shoulders, each lost in memories that never really faded.
He looked away as a sad smile crossed his face.
“I’ll be with her again. Just a matter of time. ”
“Dad…”
“I understand you now,” his whispered voice was both sad and knowing.
“Understand what?” I shifted, suddenly scared of what he was about to say.
“There’s an old saying, you know? Something about how it’s better to have loved and lost…”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I know the one.”
“I had decades worth of birthdays spent with your mother. Memories that I cherish, some of them I share with you.” His sharp eyes met mine and wouldn’t let go.
“You’ve spent all of your birthdays with us.
I love you, son. Love spending your birthdays with you.
But I want more for you. You seeing anyone these days?
” he asked me as if he didn’t already know the answer.
I shrugged. “You know I’m not.”
“Been a while, hasn’t it?” He nodded like he understood more than he let on. And maybe he did. There wasn't much I could hide from him, even now, maybe especially now. “Paige still calling you every time her sink makes a funny noise?”
I tried not to smile. “It's usually the deep freezer. Or the neon sign. Or a few of the lights,” I paused. “It’s not quite run down, but the place needs some work.”
“Well, you’re handy, aren’t you? She still single?” As if he didn’t already know that Paige was not dating anyone either. He knew everything, and he always had.
I looked at my water bottle like I could climb into it and avoid where this conversation was headed. “Yeah. She’s still single.”
“How long are you planning to pretend she's not the reason you're still single, too? You haven’t had a date since she filed for divorce from that asshole she married.”
I didn't answer.
Dad clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Well, if you're waiting on a sign, son, I think the universe already sent it. It’s purple and flickering, and bright flashing neon. Wake up and pay attention.” He nodded, thoughtful as he sipped his coffee.
“Uh, I guess, um…” I had no idea what to say, so I stopped talking.
He grinned at me like he had an ace up his sleeve, and I braced myself.
“I just found out from her mother that she closes the tavern by herself most nights. You believe that? That little girl I used to babysit after school is standing in that bar alone while everyone else clears out. I don’t much like the thought of it. ”
I sat straight in surprise. “Seriously? Alone?”
He nodded, watching my reaction. “Yup,” he answered. “All by herself.”
“She was alone a few weeks back when I fixed the light. But I’d just assumed it was a one-off, like everyone had just left. Why didn’t I realize? Why didn’t she tell me? I don’t like it either.”
He looked at me sideways. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I guess I could replace the evaporator fan motor on her freezer. I was meaning to get to that. It might take a few nights of work if I stretch it out. Plus, she has no idea what the problem is aside from the noise it sometimes makes.”
His eyes crinkled, approval warming his face. “There you go. Subtle, but effective. Sometimes, a wrench and a little common sense go further than a card and a bouquet of flowers. I’m sure the door gaskets could use some work, too. Possibly the thermostat.”
“Good thinking. And her margarita machine is a menace.”
“Don’t know why anyone would want one of those when you could have an ice-cold beer, but that’s not for me to say.”
I grinned at him without answering.
“She needs a man like you. This is a good thing you’re doing,” he added the last part under his breath.
“Yeah. I mean, I guess so.”
“Well, you know where I’ll be if you need help with that margarita machine of hers.”
“Might take you up on that.”
“Good. Now go on home and shower. Don’t show up there tonight all sweaty.”
“Yes, sir.” I chuckled as I swiped my water bottle and mock saluted him as I headed for my truck.
“Love you.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
Back at home, the kitchen lights shone overhead like a spotlight while I peeled apples over the sink, trying not to overthink what I was doing—but failing. All I’d been doing lately was overthinking and avoiding taking action. But that was over. I’d already showered, dressed, and formed a plan.
Ozzy launched himself onto the counter, tail twitching with judgment. He promptly knocked over my measured bowl of sugar with one paw; he didn’t seem to like it when my attention wasn’t solely on him.
“Seriously, man?” I muttered, brushing sugar off the edge into a paper towel. “You’ve got three scratching posts and a cat tree, and you pick my pie station for your chaos?”
He flopped dramatically across the counter like he was exhausted by my incompetence, then purred like he hadn’t just ruined my prep. I slid him gently to a stool with one arm and grabbed the bag of sugar.
The pie dough was already resting in the fridge, waiting to be rolled out. I was using my dad’s recipe—flaky, buttery crust with just a touch of cinnamon in it. He used to make it for Mom every Sunday for dessert, even if she never asked. Said it was his love language. It must be genetic.
I sliced the apples thin, tossed them with cinnamon, lemon, sugar, and a fresh swipe of nutmeg over my microplane before layering them into the crust with practiced hands. The smell hit me square in the chest.
Paige loved this pie. When he realized how much, my dad started saving some for her and Piper to eat every Monday after school, back when he used to babysit them.
I’d caught her once, curled up at the counter with her math book open and a plate of pie crumbs beside her, eyes shining from what my dad referred to as being food drunk.
“Your dad made this?” She’d asked after the first time she tasted it. “My future husband better be able to make me a pie every Sunday, just like it.”
I smiled at the memory, pressing the top crust into place.
Maybe I wasn’t trying to win her over with pie.
Maybe I was just trying to remind her that I already knew what she needed—that I knew her.
I brushed the crust with egg wash, sprinkled it with sugar crystals, and tossed it in the oven. Then I leaned back against the counter, watching the timer tick down like it was a countdown to a new future.
When it finally rang, I set it on the counter to cool, its golden crust crackling as it met the air. I packed it carefully—warm, fragrant, still a little too hot but perfect all the same.