Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
A melia
“Yeah–I’ll call you later,” Fox’s voice cuts through the quiet, his deep timbre coming from the garage downstairs. I pause, wiping my hands on a dishtowel, ears straining.
Not that I’m eavesdropping.
Or maybe I’m eavesdropping a little.
“Yeah, she’s still here,” he says, his voice dropping to a rumble that makes my stomach twist. “It’s not exactly what I expected.”
I freeze, the pan clattering onto the counter. My heart thuds in my chest, painfully loud.
“She’s… different,” he continues. “I don’t know, man. I didn’t expect to sign up for this kind of complication.”
Complication. The word hits like a slap. I swallow hard, the lump in my throat burning. My hands tremble as I grip the edge of the counter, trying to steady myself.
“Yeah, I know. It’s just… I didn’t think it’d be like this,” he mutters, his voice tight.
I can’t listen anymore. My chest aches, each beat of my heart twisting the knife. I don’t wait to hear the rest of the conversation. Instead, I turn on my heel, storming up the stairs to the loft.
The room feels suddenly small, suffocating. My suitcase sits in the corner, still partially unpacked, but the sight of it only makes me feel more out of place. Fox’s gruff voice echoes in my mind, his words ricocheting off my skull. Complication.
I thought we were starting to understand each other. That maybe I’d found something here—something real. But it turns out I’m just another inconvenience in his life, another thing he didn’t plan for.
My fingers fumble with the zipper of my suitcase, tears stinging my eyes. I refuse to cry. I won’t give him the satisfaction. But each item I shove into the carry-on feels heavier than the last, weighed down by the sinking feeling in my chest.
The scent of Fox lingers on the flannel draped over my shoulders—earthy, warm, and maddeningly familiar. It clings to me like a bittersweet memory, one I know I’ll carry long after I’ve left Devil’s Peak behind.
Fox is gone, off to some emergency mechanic job, leaving the air between us thick with unspoken words after I overheard his phone call. And maybe that’s for the best. If he were here now, I’d still be leaving, but his sharp, all-consuming presence would make it that much harder to walk away.
The walk down main street feels both too short and too long. By the time I reach The Devil’s Brew, my chest feels hollow, like I’ve already left a part of myself behind.
Inside, the brewery hums with late-afternoon energy. The rich scent of ale and the low murmur of conversation fills the air. A few regulars lift their beers in greeting, and I offer a tight smile before making my way to the bar. Behind it, a stout, middle-aged man wipes a glass clean with the ease of someone who’s seen it all.
“Amelia, right?” he says, sliding the glass onto a shelf. “You’re the one staying with Fox.”
My stomach twists. “Not anymore,” I say lightly. “I need a room for the night.”
He raises a brow but doesn’t press. “Got one open upstairs. Top of the stairs, second door on the left.”
“Thanks.” I hand him a wad of cash, enough for the room and a few drinks, before heading up the creaky staircase with my bag and Buttercup’s carrier slung over one shoulder.
The room is small but clean, the kind of place meant for passing through, not lingering. I drop the bag onto the bed, then sink into the lone chair by the window. The view outside is picturesque—Devil’s Peak rising in the distance, the Phantom River cutting through the valley like a glimmering ribbon.
It should be beautiful, comforting even. Instead, it feels like a cruel joke. This place was supposed to be a fresh start, an adventure. Instead, it’s turned into a lesson in heartbreak.
I let out a humorless laugh, the sound hollow in the quiet room. “Well, at least I’ve got material for the blog,” I mutter.
The thought sends a fresh wave of sadness crashing over me. Fox’s gruff voice echoes in my head, the word complication cutting like a blade.
I was so foolish to think we had something real.
Pulling my phone from my bag, I scroll through the numbers until I find the local taxi service. My thumb hovers over the call button as hesitation grips me. Just do it, I tell myself. Staying here another day, hoping for some kind of resolution, is a fool’s errand.
I press the button. A moment later, a chipper voice answers. “Devil’s Peak Taxi Service, how can I help?”
“Hi, I’d like to schedule a ride to the airport tomorrow morning,” I say, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest.
“Sure thing. What time are you thinking?”
“Seven a.m.”
“Got it. We’ll be there. Anything else?”
“No, that’s all. Thank you.”
I hang up, setting the phone on the small table beside me. The decision feels final, a nail in the coffin of whatever fragile thing Fox and I might have been building.
The hours pass slowly. I try to write for my blog, crafting witty lines about the mail-order bride trend and the quirky charms of small-town, mountain life. But every time I start to type, my mind drifts to Fox. His scowl. His rough hands. The way his voice softens when he calls me sunshine, even if it’s meant as a jab.
By the time the sun sets, I’m too restless to sit still. I venture downstairs to the bar, ordering a glass of wine. The warmth of it spreads through me, dulling the edges of my heartbreak but doing little to fill the void.
The bartender watches me from his post behind the bar, his eyes kind but knowing. “Rough day?”
I snort. “You could say that.”
“Fox isn’t easy,” he says, leaning against the counter. “But he’s solid. The kind of guy who shows up when it matters.”
I sip my wine, the words both comforting and infuriating. “Sometimes showing up isn’t enough.”
He doesn’t reply, just nods sagely and goes back to cleaning glasses.
“Hey–” a woman hurries up to the bar, all high-heels and designer bag on her shoulder, “do you know where I can find Cal Walker?”
The bartender narrows his eyes. “Out County Road 51 a few miles up the mountain. What business you got with him?”
Her eyes swing around as if looking for a familiar face–or like she’s scared. “I…I’m his…mail-order bride. I just got into town and I’m afraid I’ll–” the door swings open noisly and she jumps, fear lacing her features.
“Hey–you need me to call someone? The police maybe? You look like you just saw a ghost–”
“No!” The woman rushes, clutching her tote tighter to her chest. “Just a cab–I’ll need a cab to Cal Walker’s place.”
“Sure thing.” The bartender’s eyes cast up and down her form. It’s then I notice she’s not dressed for travel–she’s wearing a soft lacy cream dress under a heavy black coat. She looks…like a bride.
“Thank you,” the woman hums, eyes darting around the bar.
The bartender calls the woman a cab, then hangs up and glances back to her. “They should be here in five minutes.” He quirks an eyebrow. “What’s your name?”
“Um–Layla.” She fumbles. “Thank you for calling.”
“No problem–can I get you a drink on the house?”
“No, I’ll just wait.” Her eyes hover on mine a long moment and then she smiles weakly, lips trembling like she’s holding back tears. I should interview this woman about her mail-order bride experience but something tells me now is not the time. Anyway, I don’t have the heart to think about it anymore—exhaustion is crawling through my veins and I just want to forget all of this disastrous experience.
I offer her a reassuring smile and then pull Fox’s flannel close, the scent of him wrapping around me reassuring. A souvenir of my disastrous mail-order bride experiment. Something to remind me that even grumpy, maddening mechanics have a way of breaking your heart.
The thought stings more than I care to admit.