Chapter 2 – Jonathan
She's already here when I walk into my own damn shop.
Seven-thirty in the morning, and Cassandra Green has transformed my office from organized chaos into something that looks like an actual workplace.
File folders march across the desk in color-coded rows.
The coffee maker gleams like new. And the woman herself sits at my desk, humming off-key to the classic rock drifting from the garage bay, completely at home in my space.
The morning light catches in her hair, turning those wild curls into a copper halo.
She's wearing a soft green sweater that hugs her curves and jeans that should be illegal.
When she takes a sip from her travel mug, the scent of cinnamon coffee fills the air, mixing with the usual motor oil and metal.
I should turn around. Walk back out. Pretend I have an errand to run until eight when she's officially supposed to start.
Instead, I clear my throat.
She jumps, nearly spilling her coffee, and those whiskey-brown eyes go wide. "Oh! You scared me. I came in early, I hope that's okay? The door was open, and I wanted to get oriented before—"
"It's fine." My voice comes out rougher than intended. I move past her to the coffee maker, needing something to do with my hands. "You cleaned it."
"It was growing things. Possibly sentient things." She grins, and my chest does something stupid. "I couldn't in good conscience make coffee in a biohazard."
"It wasn't that bad."
"Jonathan, there were coffee grounds in there old enough to vote."
I bite back a smile. "In multiple elections?"
"At least a couple."
I pour coffee into my usual mug, except it's not where I left it. Nothing is where I left it. "Where's my—"
"Mug cabinet, top shelf, organized by size." She holds up a finger when I start to protest. "And before you grumble about not being able to find anything, I made you a chart."
She produces a hand-drawn map of the office, complete with labeled zones and color coding. It's ridiculous. It's adorable. And it's going to drive me insane.
"I don't need a chart to navigate my own office."
"You had invoices from 2018 mixed in with this year's receipts." She arches an eyebrow. "And what I think was a sandwich from last Tuesday filed under 'T' for Tuesday."
"That was this Tuesday."
"That doesn't make it better."
I lean against the counter, studying her over my mug. She looks good in my chair. Too good.
And that's exactly the kind of thinking that's going to get me in trouble.
"We need to talk about boundaries," I say.
Her smile falters. "Did I overstep? I'm sorry, I just thought—"
"No." The word comes out too fast, too harsh. I soften my tone. "You're fine. Good, actually. It's just... there are rules. About employers and employees."
She sets down her mug. "I'm aware of professional boundaries."
"Are you?" I don't mean it to sound like a challenge, but it does. "Because yesterday—"
"Yesterday I didn't know you were my boss." Pink climbs her neck. "Trust me, I'm very clear on that now."
The reminder stings more than it should. I turn back to the coffee maker, needing distance. "Good. That's... good."
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the clang of tools from the garage and Dale's off-key singing along to Boston.
"I should get to work," she says quietly.
"Right. Yeah." I grab my mug and head for the door. "I'll be in bay two if you need anything. Work-related."
"Jonathan?"
I pause without turning. "Yeah?"
"Your handwriting is terrible. I'm going to need a decoder ring for some of these invoices."
Despite everything, I smile. "Third drawer down. Left side."
"Seriously?"
"No, but Mike out there speaks fluent chicken scratch. He can translate."
Her laugh follows me into the garage, warm and bright and dangerous as hell.
I bury myself in work, replacing brake pads on a sedan with more focus than the job requires.
But I can't stop my awareness of Cassandra in the office.
Every time she laughs at something Mike says, every time she walks past the window, every time I catch that hint of cinnamon in the air, my concentration shatters.
"You're gonna strip those bolts if you keep at it," Dale observes from the next bay.
I ease up on the wrench. "Mind your own work."
"Just saying. You've been attacking that brake assembly like it owes you money." He grins. "Wouldn't have anything to do with the pretty new bookkeeper, would it?"
"She's an employee. That's it."
"Uh-huh." Dale doesn't even try to hide his skepticism. "That why you've checked the office window twelve times in the last hour?"
"I haven't—" I catch myself looking again and scowl. "Don't you have work to do?"
"Sure do. But watching you pretend you're not attracted to sunshine girl in there is way more entertaining."
I throw a grease rag at him. He dodges, laughing.
The morning crawls by. Every time I need something from the office, she's there. Smiling. Humming. Making my space feel warm and lived-in instead of just functional.
I'm contemplating hiding in the supply closet when Tucker Hughes strolls in, carrying a box from his brewery.
"Festival beer delivery," he announces, setting the box on my workbench. "Where do you want it?"
"Storage room." I wipe my hands on a rag. "I'll show you."
"In a minute." His eyes fix on the office window where Cassandra is visible, bent over the filing cabinet. "First, tell me about her."
"New bookkeeper. Started today."
"And?"
"And nothing."
Tucker grins, all easy charm and trouble. "Nothing, huh? Then you won't mind if I introduce myself."
He's already moving toward the office before I can stop him. I follow, jaw tight, telling myself I'm not jealous. I'm just... protective.
Of my employee. In a professional capacity, of course.
"Well, hello there." Tucker leans against the office doorframe like he owns the place. "You must be the new sunshine brightening up this grease pit."
Cassandra looks up, surprised but smiling. "I don't know about sunshine, but I'm definitely new. Cassandra Green."
"Tucker Hughes. I own the brewery." He extends a hand, holding hers a beat too long when she shakes it. "Welcome to Whitetail Falls. How are you finding our little town?"
"It's beautiful. Like something from a storybook."
"Wait'll you see it at Christmas. Pure magic." Tucker props a hip on her desk making himself comfortable. "You should come by the brewery sometime. First drink's on the house for Cox's employees."
"That's sweet of you."
"I'm a sweet guy." His grin is pure flirtation. "Ask anyone. Except Jonathan here. He'll tell you I'm trouble."
"Because you are," I mutter.
Cassandra laughs, eyes dancing between us. "I sense history."
"Thirty years of it," Tucker confirms. "I've been trying to corrupt this grump since kindergarten. Limited success."
"Maybe you need better material."
"Ouch." Tucker clutches his chest dramatically. "She's got bite. I like it."
They're bantering. In my office. She's sitting in my chair, laughing at his jokes, and something hot and possessive coils in my gut.
"Don't you have beer to deliver?" I ask pointedly.
"In a hurry to get rid of me?" Tucker's grin says he knows exactly what he's doing. "Fine, fine. But Cassandra, that offer stands."
"I'll keep that in mind."
He winks before sauntering out. I start to follow, but Cassandra's voice stops me.
"He seems nice."
I turn back. "He's a flirt."
"I noticed." She tilts her head, studying me. "Does that bother you?"
Yes. "No. Just... be careful. Tucker's a good guy, but he's—"
"Not my type." She returns to her computer. "Too charming."
"Too charming?"
"I prefer grumpy mechanics who need decoder rings for their own handwriting."
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning we can't acknowledge. She keeps her eyes on the screen, but pink creeps up her neck again.
I should leave. Walk away. Pretend she didn't just admit to preferring me.
Instead, I hear myself ask, "What are you doing for lunch?"
She blinks up at me. "I brought a sandwich."
"The Copper Kettle makes the best soup in town. Loaded potato today." I shove my hands in my pockets. "I usually grab some. Could pick up extra. If you want."
Her smile is slow and warm. "That sounds nice."
"It's not—this isn't—" I struggle for words. "It's just lunch. Between employer and employee."
"Of course." But her eyes say something different. Something that matches the heat unfurling in my chest.
I escape to the storage room, where Tucker's waiting with a knowing smirk.
"Employer and employee, huh?"
"Shut up."
"That's why you looked ready to break my hand when I touched hers?"
"I didn't—"
"You did." He leans against the wall. "Want some advice?"
"No."
"Too bad. That woman is interested. Very interested. And if you're too stubborn to do something about it—"
"She works for me." The words come out hard. "That's a line I won't cross."
Tucker studies me. "Even if she's the one?"
"There's no such thing as 'the one.' This is real life, not a fairy tale."
"Maybe." He heads for the door, then pauses. "But you should see your face when you look at her, Jon. That's not nothing."
He leaves me standing in the storage room, fists clenched, trying to convince myself he's wrong.
But when five o'clock comes and Cassandra gathers her things to leave, I watch from the garage.
The setting sun turns Emberstone Avenue golden, and the Fall Festival lights are just starting to glow in the distance.
She pauses at the door, glancing back like she's looking for something. For someone.
For me.
Our eyes meet through the glass. Hold. Then she's gone, taking all the warmth with her.
I lean against the workbench, head down, breathing in the familiar scents of my shop. Trying to ground myself in what I know, what's safe.
I force myself to stand straighter, falling back on the military bearing that got me through two tours overseas. Distance. Discipline. Control.
"You're already in trouble, old man," I mutter to myself.