Chapter 4 – Jonathan
The wrench slips in my hand, and I bang my knuckles against the engine block.
"Son of a—" I bite back the curse, sucking at the scraped skin. It's the third time I've hurt myself this morning, and it's barely nine o'clock.
All because I can't stop thinking about Cassandra. About her standing in the firelight at the bonfire last night. About the hurt in her eyes when I pulled away. About the fact that even now, with my hand throbbing, what really aches is the memory of her walking away.
The bell over the front door chimes. I ignore it, knowing Dale can handle whoever's walking in. But then I catch that cinnamon scent and my head jerks up of its own accord.
Cassandra weaves through the garage, a paper bag from The Enchanted Bean clutched in one hand, a tray of coffees in the other.
She's wearing a deep blue sweater today that hugs her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
Her curls are half-tamed in some kind of twist, with rebellious strands escaping around her face.
She's beautiful. And I'm staring.
I duck back under the hood, trying to look busy when she pauses beside my workbench.
"Brought breakfast," she says, her voice deliberately casual. "Eliza said the pumpkin muffins are your favorite."
I straighten slowly, wiping my hands on the rag. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know." She sets the bag down, still not quite meeting my eyes. "Consider it a peace offering after last night."
"You've got nothing to apologize for." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "I'm the one who—"
"Can we just pretend it never happened?" Her smile is too bright, too forced. "You're right about the boundaries. I respect that."
No, you don't understand. The boundaries aren't for you. They're for me. Because I can barely look at you without wanting to—
"Sure." I take the coffee she offers, careful not to let our fingers brush. "Thanks."
She nods, professional distance firmly in place, and heads toward the office. I watch her go, hating myself for the way my eyes track the swing of her hips, the way my body tightens in response.
This is why the boundaries matter. Because every time she's near, I forget I'm her boss. Forget I'm too old, too rough, too set in my ways. Forget every reason why this can't happen.
The morning crawls by. I throw myself into work, but my awareness of her never fades.
She hums while she types, off-key little snippets that drift from the office.
Occasionally she laughs at something on the phone, the sound wrapping around me like a physical touch.
Twice she brings me paperwork to sign, standing just close enough that I can smell her perfume, just far enough that I can't feel her warmth.
Around eleven, I'm deep in the guts of Mrs. Williamson's ancient Buick when Dale appears at my side.
"Uh, boss? There's a situation."
Something in his tone makes me straighten immediately. "What kind of situation?"
"Office. Guy asking for Cassandra." Dale shifts uncomfortably. "Seems... intense."
I'm moving before he finishes speaking, grabbing a shop rag to wipe my hands as I stride toward the office. Through the window, I can see a man leaning over the desk, palms flat on the surface, face inches from Cassandra's. Her shoulders are hunched.
Every protective instinct I've ever had roars to life. I push through the door, letting it bang against the wall. The man straightens and turns.
"Private conversation here, buddy," he says dismissively.
I ignore him, focusing on Cassandra. Her face is pale, her hands trembling slightly where they rest on the desk.
"Everything okay?" I ask her directly.
"It's fine," she says, but her voice wavers. "This is... Ryan. He's—"
"Her boyfriend," the man cuts in with a smirk. "Ex-boyfriend, technically, but we're working on that. Right, Cass?"
The nickname sounds wrong in his mouth. Possessive. Belittling. Cassandra flinches slightly.
"You need to leave." The words come out calm, measured, despite the rage building under my skin. "Now."
Ryan laughs, a sharp, ugly sound. "Who the hell are you?"
"Jonathan Cox. I own this garage." I step further into the room. "And Cassandra works for me."
"Yeah? Well, Cassandra and I have history, so why don't you go back to your grease monkey business and let us finish our conversation?"
I don't move. "Cassandra? Do you want to talk to him?"
She hesitates, then shakes her head. It's small, almost imperceptible, but it's enough.
"You heard her." I set my shoulders, an old stance from my military days. Not aggressive, just immovable. "Time for you to go."
"This is ridiculous." Ryan turns back to Cassandra. "Baby, come on. I drove all the way from Boston to find you. The least you can do is hear me out."
"I've heard enough," she says quietly. "Please leave, Ryan."
"Not until you agree to come home." His voice hardens. "This little small-town adventure is cute, but it's time to stop running."
"She's not running." My voice drops lower, dangerous. "She's home."
Ryan turns on me, finally sensing the threat. He draws himself up, trying to use his height, though he still has to look up to meet my eyes.
"Listen, grease—"
"No, you listen." I step between him and the desk, forcing him back without touching him.
"Cassandra asked you to leave. That means you walk out that door, get in whatever overpriced car you drove here, and head back to Boston.
You don't come to this garage again. You don't approach her anywhere in Whitetail Falls. "
"Or what? You'll beat me up?" He sneers. "Real tough guy, threatening someone half your size."
I don't take the bait. "I won't have to do anything. See, Whitetail Falls takes care of its own. If word gets around that you're bothering one of ours, you'll find this town gets real inhospitable, real fast."
Something in my tone must finally get through to him. His eyes flicker, and he takes another step back.
"This is insane." He glances at Cassandra. "He has you brainwashed or something. What, you're part of some small-town cult now?"
"Goodbye, Ryan." Her voice is steadier now. "Don't call. Don't visit. It's over."
He stares at her for a long moment, then shakes his head in disgust. "Your loss. Good luck playing country bumpkin with your grease monkey boyfriend."
The office door slams behind him. Through the window, I watch him storm toward a shiny black Mercedes parked at the curb. Dale and Mike, bless them, have positioned themselves near the car, arms crossed, making it clear that he's being watched.
The silence in his wake feels heavy. I turn back to Cassandra, who hasn't moved from her chair.
"You okay?" I ask, gentling my voice.
She nods, then shakes her head, then lets out a shaky laugh. "I don't know."
"He's gone."
"For now." Her hands are still trembling slightly. "I'm sorry about that. I never thought he'd track me down here."
"Nothing to apologize for." I want to touch her so badly it's a physical ache—to smooth back her hair, to take her hands in mine, to pull her against my chest where I can keep her safe. Instead, I lean against the desk, giving her space. "Want to talk about it?"
"Not much to say." She stares at her hands. "Classic story. Girl meets charming guy. Guy turns out to be controlling jerk. Girl finally finds the courage to leave."
"Seems like you found plenty of courage to me."
"I don't feel very brave right now." Her voice drops to a whisper. "No one's ever stood up for me like that before."
I imagine her alone, defending herself against that arrogant prick, with no one in her corner. Something fierce and protective unfurls in my chest.
"Well, get used to it." The words come out gruff. "That's how things work here."
"In Whitetail Falls? Or at Cox Auto Repair?"
"Both." I almost reach for her then, my hand lifting before I catch myself. "Listen, if he comes back, or if he contacts you, I want to know."
"Going to defend my honor again?" There's a hint of teasing in her voice, some of her spark returning.
"Damn right I will."
Her eyes widen slightly at my vehemence, and I realize I've let too much show. Too much of whatever this is that burns between us, this thing I'm fighting and failing to control.
"My knight in greasy armor," she says softly, a smile tugging at her lips.
The tension breaks, and I let out a surprised laugh— a real one, rusty from disuse. Her answering smile is like sunrise, warm and bright and full of promise.
"Pretty sure knights are supposed to be shining, not greasy," I manage.
"Overrated." She waves a dismissive hand. "I prefer the kind that can fix a carburetor."
"Water pump," I correct automatically.
"See? So much more useful than a sword."
We're both smiling now, the heaviness of Ryan's visit receding. But something fundamental has shifted. The careful distance I've been trying to maintain feels paper-thin, ready to tear at the slightest touch.
Because now I know. I know she's been hurt. I know she came here looking for safety, for belonging. And every instinct I have is screaming to be the one who gives that to her.
Boss or not. Professional boundaries be damned.
The rest of the day passes in a strange limbo.
We work side by side, maintaining the pretense of normalcy, but the air between us has changed.
Every accidental brush of fingers when she hands me paperwork, every shared glance, every moment our eyes meet and hold a beat too long—it all feels charged with something inevitable.
By closing time, my resolve is hanging by a thread.
"I'm heading out," Cassandra says from the office doorway, bag slung over her shoulder. "See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah." I clear my throat. "Tomorrow."
She hesitates, like she wants to say something more, then just offers a small smile and turns away.