Chapter 11
Landon
Ishow up earlier than usual. The garage is already unlocked. Joon’s car sits out front. Inside, I find him hunched over an engine, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair pulled back in that half-assed knot he does when he doesn’t care if it falls loose.
And behind the counter—Marcy.
She’s sitting at the desk, shoulders rounded, cardigan wrapped tight around her. There’s a mug by her elbow, steam curling faintly from it, but she’s not drinking. She flips through intake forms like her eyes can’t quite focus, lids heavy with exhaustion.
Tired. Way too tired.
I clear my throat. “Morning.”
She looks up fast, like I caught her somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. “Morning,” she echoes softly. A quick smile flickers—polite, automatic—before she bends over the papers again.
Joon straightens when he spots me. “You’re early,” he says, like it’s an accusation.
“So are you.” I grab a rag off the bench even though my hands are clean. “Just thought I’d get a jump start on things.”
Joon studies me for a second, his eyes sharp in the dim light. He nods to Marcy. “She’s having nightmares.” He doesn’t explain how he knows or what she’s said. He just turns back to Marcy’s car and gets back to work.
I glance at Marcy again. She doesn’t notice. Her pen keeps moving, careful and steady, like she’s willing herself into focus. Nightmares. That explains the marks under her eyes, the quiet exhaustion.
I wipe my hands on the rag, toss it onto the bench, and walk over to the counter.
“You want to step out for a bit?” I ask, keeping my voice low so it’s just for her.
She blinks up at me, startled. “Step out?”
“For coffee,” I say, nodding toward the lukewarm mug of tea beside her elbow. “You look like you could use something stronger than whatever you’re drinking. There’s a place two blocks over that has the good stuff.”
Her lips twitch, caught between a smile and a protest. “I shouldn’t… It's work hours.”
“You’re with the boss,” I remind her. “Call it training.”
For a second, she looks like she might say no. Then something eases in her shoulders, and she nods. “Okay. Just for a little while.”
We walk in silence toward the local coffee shop, The Bean.
The bell over the café door jingles as we step inside, and warmth wraps around us along with the rich scent of roasted coffee beans.
The place buzzes with quiet conversation but feels cozy—wood-paneled walls lined with mismatched mugs and old photos of the town.
We order—black coffee for me, something sweeter with caramel for her—and settle into a small table by the window. Sunlight filters through the glass, catching a few copper strands mixed into her brown hair.
For the first time since I’ve met her, she almost looks relaxed. Almost. Her fingers curl around the cup like it’s an anchor, and her shoulders slowly drop as she exhales into the steam.
“This is better,” she admits.
“Told you.” I lean back, trying not to watch her too closely. Trying not to think about how natural it feels sitting across from her like this.
The bell above the café door jingles again, and a local, Evan, strolls in, dusting snow off his plaid jacket .
He greets the barista by name, nods at a couple of folks by the counter, then spots us by the window.
His grin widens with the kind of easy confidence that comes from knowing everybody in town.
“Well, now, don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” he says, wandering over with his coffee cup in hand. He tips his chin at Marcy, smile warm enough to seem harmless. “You new in town?”
Marcy straightens, her fingers tightening on her cup. “Just passing through, actually,” she says politely, keeping her tone light.
“Passing through, huh? Shame. Pretty face like yours—” he pauses for effect, then flashes another grin—”Black Pines could use a little more sunshine.”
Her cheeks flush pink, and she lets out a small, awkward laugh. “That’s… nice of you to say.”
“You planning to stay long?” he asks, leaning just a fraction closer, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I could show you the best spots around—there’s a hiking trail out past the lake, and I make a mean barbecue if you ever get tired of diner food.”
Marcy’s smile is polite, her “That sounds nice” automatic. I catch the discomfort in how she glances down, clearly not wanting to be rude but equally unwilling to continue this conversation.
That’s all I need to see.
“Appreciate the offer,” I say, cutting in before he can push further and Evan glances at me like he's just noticed me sitting here. “But we’ve got to get back to work.” My tone stays easy—casual enough that it doesn’t sound like I’m picking a fight, but final enough to end this.
Evan huffs a chuckle and lifts his cup in a salute. “Fair enough. Don’t work her too hard, Landon.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply.
He drifts back toward the counter, still radiating that small-town charm that works on tourists.
Marcy exhales, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “He was just being friendly,” she murmurs, like she’s trying to convince herself more than me.
“Maybe,” I say, keeping my voice steady, “but you don’t owe anyone your time just because they ask for it.”
Her lips press together at that. She gives a quiet nod before looking down at her cup again.
I take a sip of my own coffee, pretending to focus on the chatter around us. Inside, though, I’m still running hot—protective, keyed up, and trying like hell not to show just how much I enjoy stepping between her and the world.
Wes’s indie rock music pumps through the speakers when we get back to the shop. He grins the moment he spots the paper tray of coffees in my hands.
“Yes! You’re a lifesaver,” he says, rushing over to snatch one from the tray. He takes a long swig and groans like he’s already worked a double shift instead of clocking in just an hour ago.
Marcy smiles at his theatrics and heads to the desk, settling behind the computer. Once she’s back to work, I do the same.
It’s nearing the end of the day when Joon calls out. I’m halfway through rotating the tires on an F-150 when his voice cuts through the shop noise: “Landon, you gotta come take a look at this.”
Something in his voice makes me straighten immediately. He’s not the type to sound rattled. I wipe my hands on a rag and head over to where Marcy’s car is still up on the lift. Joon’s standing beneath it, brow furrowed, flashlight pointed at something in the undercarriage.
“What’s up?” I ask, my boots echoing on the concrete.
He motions me under. “Check this out. The fuel line’s been tampered with. At first, I thought maybe it was corrosion or a crack from wear and tear, but this?” He runs his finger along a sharp, clean cut. “That’s deliberate.”
My jaw tightens. I squat down to get a better look, heart thudding harder the longer I stare. “This wasn’t an accident.”
“Nope,” Joon says. “Someone wanted her car to fail. Probably on a back road somewhere. Snowy night like that? Could’ve gone a hell of a lot worse.”
A sharp chill runs through me. I brace one hand against the car frame as my mind reels. Marcy told me she filled the tank. Told me it didn’t make sense how fast it emptied. Now I know why.
“Someone cut the line and let it leak out slow. Smart. She wouldn’t have noticed until she was stranded.” I run a hand down my face. “Goddamn it.”
Joon glances over, brow raised. “You think it was the ex?”
“Who else would it be?”
The words scrape out of my throat before I can stop them.
Joon exhales through his nose, expression grim. “That’s what I figured.”
We stand there under the lift, the smell of oil thick in the air, silence stretched tight as wire.
Rage licks at the back of my tongue. Whoever did this didn’t just want to rattle her—they wanted her stuck.
Stranded on a mountain pass, in a snowstorm, with no one around to help. The thought makes my stomach twist.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “She’s lucky she made it here at all.”
Footsteps echo faintly across the concrete. Too light to be Wes or Becket.
I turn, and there she is.
Marcy stands at the edge of the bay, one hand braced against the doorframe, eyes wide and locked on the car above us. Her face has gone pale, lips parted just slightly. She heard everything.
Shit.
“Marcy,” I say carefully, straightening. My rag hangs useless in my fist.
Her gaze flicks from me to Joon, then back again. “You said… tampered?” Her voice wavers, soft but sharp enough to slice through the garage noise. “You mean someone did this on purpose?”
Joon starts to answer, but I lift a hand, stepping toward her. “We don’t know for sure—”
Her head shakes fast, brittle. “Don’t lie to me. Please.”
The plea hits heavier than a shout.
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “We found a cut in the line. Clean cut. It wasn’t wear and tear.”
She swallows hard, arms wrapping around herself. “So it wasn’t just bad luck. It was him.”
My chest tightens. The name doesn’t leave her lips, but I know exactly who she means.
“I’ll fix it,” I tell her. “We’ll replace the line and check everything else, top to bottom. He won’t get another chance to touch this car without me knowing.”
But that doesn’t soothe the storm brewing behind her eyes.
She’s not thinking about fuel lines or car parts anymore.
She’s thinking about how close she came to being stranded on some mountain road in the freezing dark.
About how calculated it was. Her breath comes quicker, shoulders hitching. I see it—the edge of panic creeping in.
“Marcy,” I murmur, soft but steady, stepping close enough that she can hear me over the hum of the shop lights. “Look at me.”
Her eyes flick up, glassy but sharp.
“You’re here,” I say. “You made it here. He didn’t win. You’re safe now.”
For a second, the only sound is the ticking of a cooling engine across the bay. Then she nods, tiny, like her neck barely wants to move.
“I need…” Her voice cracks. She clears it, tries again. “I need some air.”
“Of course.” I gesture toward the side door. “Go ahead. Take all the time you need.”
She slips past me, moving fast, like the walls are closing in. She shoves the door open, and cold air rushes in for a heartbeat before it clicks shut behind her.
I stay planted where I am, fists opening and closing, rage coiled tight beneath my skin.
Joon’s voice cuts through the silence. “She needed to hear it eventually.”
I sigh. "Doesn’t mean it had to go down like that."
He shrugs, exhausted. “Truth doesn’t wait for the right moment.”
I exhale hard and glance at the side door again, wanting to chase after her, drag her back inside, swear I won’t let him get near her again. But I know better. Right now, she needs breathing room more than she needs me shadowing her every move.
Still, my chest tightens as I grab the flashlight and force myself back under the lift.
Because no matter how much distance she thinks she needs, I’m already certain of one thing—Brett won’t get within arm’s reach again. Not while I’m still standing.