Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
SANDRA
The diner across from Diesel's garage is exactly what I expected: worn vinyl booths, checkered floor tiles, and the lingering scent of coffee and fried food. Comfort personified. A bell jingles as we enter, and several heads turn our way.
"Diesel! Twice in one week. Must be my lucky day." A waitress with silver-streaked hair and laugh lines calls from behind the counter.
"Hey, Betty." Diesel nods, guiding me to a booth in the corner with a light touch at my lower back that sends shivers up my spine.
"And who's your friend?" Betty asks, approaching with menus and a knowing look that makes my cheeks heat.
"Customer," Diesel corrects gruffly. "Sandra Hemmings. She's Old Man Joe's granddaughter."
Betty's eyes widen. "Joe's granddaughter? Well, bless my soul." She extends a hand. "Your grandpa was a treasure in this town. We all miss him something fierce."
I shake her hand, warmth blooming in my chest. "Thank you. I'm just starting to realize how many lives he touched here."
"Coffee?" Betty asks, already filling two mugs without waiting for our answer.
"Please," I say. "And whatever's good for lunch."
"Patty melt for me," Diesel says, not bothering with the menu. "Extra onions."
Betty winks at me. "Don't worry, honey. I'll bring mints for after."
I laugh as she walks away. "Are you a regular here?"
"It's across from my garage." Diesel shrugs like that explains everything. "Food's good. Service is fast. No frills."
"Just how you like things," I observe.
His eyes flick to mine. "Generally."
Something about the way he says it makes my stomach flip. There's a depth to his gaze that suggests exceptions might exist to his no-frills preference.
"So," I say, hoping he doesn't notice the slight breathlessness in my voice. "What's the prognosis for my car? Give it to me straight, doctor."
His mouth quirks. "Complete engine rebuild. New transmission. Rewiring the electrical system. Basically, we're keeping the body and replacing everything else."
"That bad, huh?"
"That bad." He takes a sip of coffee. "Someone really did a number on it. Probably flipped it for a quick profit."
I grimace. "Guess I should have done more research before buying."
"Most people wouldn't know what to look for." His tone lacks the judgment I'd expect. "Scammers are good at what they do."
"Still, I feel stupid. Grandpa would have known better."
Diesel studies me over the rim of his mug. "Everyone makes mistakes. The question is whether you learn from them."
"Touché," I concede. "Though this is a pretty expensive lesson."
"Sometimes those are the ones that stick." There's something in his voice, a hint of personal experience that makes me wonder what expensive lessons he's learned.
Betty returns with our food—a patty melt for Diesel and a club sandwich for me that's stacked higher than seems physically possible. The first bite confirms it's as delicious as it looks.
"So," I say after swallowing, "what do normal people do around here when they're not fixing classic cars?"
"Define normal," he counters.
"Fair point. What do you do when you're not at the garage?"
He seems surprised by the personal question. "Work on my own projects. Read. Hike sometimes."
"What kind of projects?"
"Building things. I've got a workshop behind my place." He takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. "Currently making a custom motorcycle from scratch."
"Really?" I lean forward, genuinely interested. "From scratch? Like, every part?"
"Not every part. Engine's from an old Indian. Frame I built myself." The way his eyes light up when he talks about his project transforms his face, softening the hard edges. "It's taking forever, but that's part of the point."
"The journey, not the destination," I say, and immediately feel silly for spouting such a cliché.
But Diesel nods. "Exactly. The building is the enjoyable part."
"I'd love to see it sometime," I say before I can stop myself. "The motorcycle, I mean."
He looks at me for a long moment, as if weighing something. "Maybe. When it's further along."
It's not a no, which feels like a win.
"What about you?" he asks, surprising me. "What do you do when you're not stranded in small towns with broken cars?"
I laugh. "Well, until recently, I was in marketing. Corporate drone in Chicago, eighty-hour work weeks, the whole nightmare."
"And now?"
"Now..." I trail off, considering. "Now I'm not sure. I quit my job, broke off my engagement, and decided to start over. Grandpa's cabin seemed like a sign, you know? A place to figure things out."
"Engagement?" His eyebrows rise.
"To Martin. Nice guy, decent job, completely wrong for me." I wave a hand dismissively. "Classic case of settling because it seemed like the right thing to do."
"What changed?"
I meet his gaze. "I did. Or maybe I remembered who I was beneath all the compromises."
Diesel nods like he understands completely, and I suspect he might. There's a depth to him that belies his gruff exterior.
"You know," I continue, "Grandpa used to tell me that most people live their whole lives on autopilot. Going through the motions because it's easier than making conscious choices. I think I was on autopilot for a long time."
"And now?"
"Now I'm definitely in manual mode. For better or worse." I take a sip of coffee. "Terrifying but exhilarating."
"Freedom usually is." There's something in his voice that makes me think he's speaking from experience.
I want to ask about his past, about what brought him to Crimson Hollow five years ago, but something tells me he's not ready to share that story yet. Instead, I change the subject.
"So, if my car's going to take a month to fix, what should I do around here besides bug you at the garage?"
He chuckles. "There's hiking if you're into that. Lake's too cold for swimming this time of year, but the views are nice. Bean & Bloom hosts game nights on Thursdays. The Velvet Antler does wine tastings on weekends."
"Any Christmas events coming up? The town seems pretty decked out for the holidays."
"Tree lighting ceremony tomorrow in the town square. Usually draws a crowd." He shrugs. "Not really my scene, but people seem to enjoy it."
"Let me guess. You're not big on Christmas?"
He snorts. "What gave it away?"
"Just a hunch," I say dryly. "Is it the commercialism, the forced cheer, or just a general aversion to joy that bothers you most?"
For a second I worry I've gone too far, but then he laughs, a genuine sound that transforms his face. "All of the above, I guess. Though the music is what really drives me crazy. Same fifteen songs for six weeks straight."
"Valid complaint," I concede. "But surely there must be something about the season you enjoy? Food? Presents? Peace on earth and goodwill toward men?"
He considers this seriously. "The quiet on Christmas morning isn't bad. When everything's closed and the streets are empty. Peaceful."
There's something wistful in his tone that tugs at my heart. Before I can respond, Betty swings by with the check.
"Diesel, honey, Roman called the diner looking for you. Says his bike's making that noise again and he needs you to look at it this afternoon." She sets the check on the table. "This one's on me," she adds, giving me a warm smile. "Welcome to Crimson Hollow, Joe's granddaughter."
"Oh, that's not necessary," I protest.
"Course it is. Your grandpa fixed my carburetor more times than I can count. Never charged me a dime. Consider it paying it forward." She pats my hand and bustles away before I can argue further.
"People are so nice here," I say, slightly overwhelmed by the gesture.
"Small towns." Diesel shrugs. "Everyone knows everyone. Good and bad."
"More good than bad, I'm guessing, since you stayed."
Something flickers across his face. "Yeah. More good than bad."
We head back to the garage, walking side by side in comfortable silence. The afternoon air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke. Crimson Hollow really is picturesque, like something from a Christmas card.
Back at Grizzle & Grind, Diesel gets a call that pulls him away to deal with some emergency at Roman's place. I spend a few more hours watching Marcus work on other vehicles, asking questions and learning more than I ever thought I'd want to know about automotive repair.
By five o'clock, I'm exhausted but buzzing with new knowledge. My hands are dirty, my clothes are stained, and I've never felt more satisfied after a day's work. Even if that work was mostly watching and handing tools to others.
"Heading out?" Marcus asks as I gather my things.
"Yeah, need a shower and food. Will Diesel be back today?"
Marcus shrugs. "Hard to say. Roman's bike problems usually take a while. Boss might be at it all night."
Disappointment flickers through me, which is ridiculous. I've spent most of the day with the man already. "Well, tell him I'll stop by tomorrow if he's free."
"Will do." Marcus gives me a knowing smile that I pretend not to notice.
Outside, the temperature has dropped, and I pull my coat tighter around me. The walk back to The Mountain Lodge isn't far, but the gathering darkness makes me quicken my pace.
"Sandra!" A voice calls from behind me. I turn to see Diesel jogging to catch up, his breath clouding in the cold air. "Hold up."
"Hey," I say, surprised. "Marcus said you'd be tied up with Roman's bike all night."
"False alarm. Easy fix." He falls into step beside me. "Heading back to the lodge?"
"Yeah, need to get cleaned up." I gesture to my grease-stained clothes. "I'm not used to working with my hands like this."
"You did good today," he says, surprising me. "Most people wouldn't have wanted to get dirty."
"I'm not most people."
His eyes meet mine. "I'm starting to realize that."
The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold. We walk in silence for a moment, our shoulders occasionally brushing.