Chapter Three
Carter
“Well, who is this cutie pie?” Mia asks when we come in through the back door.
“This is Amelia and her mom, Kenna. I just towed their car after a little fender bender.”
“Ha!” Kenna exclaims. “If you call that little, I’d hate to see what you call big.”
I wave my arm at her and her daughter. “You’re both alive and well and without a scratch on you. That’s a win in anyone’s book if you ask me.”
Mia comes out from behind the counter. “Nice to meet you both.” She crouches down. “I’m Mia.”
Amelia smiles. “That’s sort of like my name.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. I love your pretty red hair, Amelia.”
Amelia shoots me a wrinkled-nose glance. “He called it orange, like a pumpkin.”
Mia laughs. “My brother is obviously color blind. It’s definitely red. And it’s gorgeous.”
“Brother?” Kenna asks. “You’re a Cruz, too?”
Before Mia can answer, Dax bursts through the service-bay door. Without looking up, he adjusts himself and grouses, “We need to turn the damn heaters up in there. My balls are freezing.”
I clear my throat, loudly.
Dax stops walking when he sees Kenna and Amelia. “Ah, jeez. Sorry.”
“Brother,” I scold, shaking my head. “Try reading the room next time.”
At least he has the good sense to look sheepish as he takes in the scene.
Kenna cocks her head. “Just how many of you are there?”
I laugh. “Family-owned. There are four of us. This knucklehead is Dax. He and Mia are twins. Lincoln is around here somewhere too.”
“Mommy.” Amelia tugs on Kenna’s coat sleeve. “I wanna play the PlayStation.”
I motion to the lounge area. “Right this way, pumpkin.”
Amelia’s hands land on her hips like a defiant teen. “My hair is red,” she reminds me, complete with an adorable foot stomp.
“But your coat is orange, so it still applies.”
She looks down at her coat then back at me. “What would you call me if my coat was blue?”
I shrug as I get the game console out of the cabinet and search for an age-appropriate cartridge. “Pumpkin.”
She looks like she might want to argue, but at the same time, the corners of her mouth give her away as they turn up slightly.
I turn on the TV and hand her a controller. “Have you ever played this one?”
Her eyes widen and her head nods over and over. “It’s my favorite. Ms. Kinney always played it with me. Will you play it?”
“Maybe later. Right now, I have to go look at your car to see about getting it fixed.” I turn to Kenna, who’s situated herself on the couch. “Can I get you anything?”
“I’m good. Thank you. You’ve done so much already.”
She offers me a tired but appreciative smile as she shrugs her coat off, and I can hardly tear my eyes away. I’m not sure why. She’s not wearing anything special. There’s no cleavage showing. No skin-tight sweater. Just what looks like an old, comfortable NYU sweatshirt and a pair of faded jeans.
I’m poked in the ribs, and when I turn to glare at whoever’s needling me, Mia raises her eyebrows. “Weren’t you just saying you needed to go look at their car?”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” I shake my head, hoping Kenna didn’t realize I was staring.
On my way out, I hear Mia say, “You’re not from around here.”
I stop at the back door and listen for a moment.
“The city actually,” Kenna says. “But we were in the process of moving.”
“Moving where?”
There’s a pause before Kenna speaks again. “Honestly, I’m not sure.”
Alarms go off in my head and I’m reminded of what she said earlier.
‘We were leaving.’
‘All our stuff is in the car.’
Is she running from something? Or someone? My body stiffens and all my protective instincts kick in. Is she in danger? Is Amelia?
Not your problem, a voice in my mind says. But I ignore it. Because for some inexplicable reason, the moment Kenna and her daughter got into the truck, it became my problem.
~ ~ ~
When I come back in from the warehouse, Amelia is asleep, her head in Kenna’s lap.
There’s only one other person in the lounge area waiting on their vehicle service to be complete.
Most people wisely chose to stay home on this cold, wintery day.
I nod to Mr. Kensington, who’s waiting on a battery replacement, and assure him his car will be ready shortly, then I pull over a chair and sit across from Kenna.
She sets down the magazine she was reading.
Luckily, my sister insists on keeping more than just car and mechanic magazines in the waiting area.
There are ones on parenting and gardening, a few National Geographics, several on the comings and goings of celebrities, and even some about pets. Kenna was reading Us Weekly.
She sighs. “You’re about to ask me if I want the good news or the bad news first, aren’t you?”
I laugh quietly so I don’t wake her daughter. “Guess I don’t have much of a poker face, huh?”
Her stare rakes over my hair, my eyes, my lips. And, Jesus, I swear my heart just flipped over.
“No. Definitely not a poker face.”
Shit. How far beyond news about her car does that go? Can she tell I was immediately drawn to her in a way I haven’t experienced in well over a decade? Hell, I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced this kind of instant attraction—or whatever it is.
Then again, maybe it’s not attraction. Maybe it’s simply a need to make sure she’s safe. Not just from the car accident, but from whatever she was leaving behind when it happened.
But that doesn’t make sense either. This isn’t a new situation for me.
I can’t even count how many times I’ve given rides to moms and their kids after a wreck or breakdown.
And there are plenty of women in Calloway Creek who’ve needed help—major help—at one time or another.
Take Maddie Calloway for instance. She was a young single mom who survived a fire and was permanently scarred.
Or Ava Criss, who thought she’d lost her husband, who also happens to be my best friend, last year.
Or Violet Morrow, the owner of the bakery on McQuaid Circle whose boyfriend cheated on her when she was pregnant, leaving her to raise the baby alone after he skipped town.
How come I didn’t swoop in and take care of them like I feel the need to do with Kenna?
But I also get the feeling she doesn’t particularly want, or even need, my help. She’s nice. Polite. Grateful. But also cautious and wary. A good combination of qualities for a single woman if you ask me.
“Good news first,” she says, breaking into my introspection. “Always good news first. It softens the blow for what comes next.”
“I like your optimism.” I fight the urge to put a reassuring hand on her arm. “Okay, well the good news is your car isn’t totaled. In fact, it isn’t even as bad as I originally thought. The body damage will take about a day and a half. The engine damage is minor. You picked a great car.”
She nods. “Keeping Amelia safe is my top priority.”
Her words give me pause. Is she referring to more than just the car?
She bites her lower lip and says, “But…” When I don’t immediately say anything, she adds, “There’s always a but after the good news part. Just give it to me, Carter.”
When she speaks my name, a strange energy courses through me. Damn. How can my name—a word I’ve heard a million times in my life—seem different just because she’s saying it?
“Okay, so, along with the bumper, the front passenger-side quarter panel—which is the body section between the passenger door and the front wheel well—needs to be replaced. And while the work itself will only take a day, two tops, the parts needed to replace it will take a week to ten days to arrive.”
Her jaw goes slack. “A week?”
“At the very least. I even called my distributor personally to see about expediting it. But with the exclusivity of your high-end vehicle, it’s just not possible.”
She looks embarrassed that I called her out on her expensive ride. Her having it is almost humorous. Or maybe out of place. She doesn’t strike me as the type to drive such a car. Her clothes are anything but designer. Her purse bears no fancy logo or label. Nor does her or Amelia’s coat.
Shit. Is the car even hers? I didn’t bother looking at the registration. Maybe she’s married to some billionaire banker in the city—a man who hurts her, forcing her to go on the run.
I study her face. No bruises. No makeup either. But it’s flawless. Not a single wrinkle, freckle, or laugh line. Still, the absence of visual trauma doesn’t mean she’s not in trouble. I know all too well there are other kinds of abuse.
She slides Amelia’s head off her lap, gently laying it on the couch cushion, then stands and walks into the main lobby, where she starts to pace. “A week. Maybe more.” She’s not talking to me, only to herself. Her head shakes over and over.
I follow behind her. “How can I help?”
“I was hoping to be long south of here by day’s end. I thought maybe we’d go to Florida. Amelia would love Disney World. And she’s always wanted to go to the beach.”
I think of the random cars we have out in the warehouse.
Cars totaled by insurance companies that were signed over to us by the owners and we’ve restored to working condition to sell at deep discounts.
But then I look over at Amelia, who’s napping soundly despite the noise coming from the game show on the television.
No, that’s not an option. None of them have the safety standards Kenna would want for her daughter.
“Maybe you could rent a car? We have room to store yours after it’s repaired. You know, until you can come back and pick it up.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t rent a car.”
I raise my brow in concern, wondering if that means she has no money or no credit cards.
“I’m only twenty-four,” she adds. “You have to be twenty-five to rent a car. Besides…”
Her words trail off as I do quick math in my head. Was she a teenager when she had Amelia? Seems I’m finding out we have more and more in common.
“Besides what?”
“Nothing. I just can’t rent a car is all.”
“What about going back to the city?”
“No.”
It’s only one short word. But from the way she says it, I understand it is not an option.
“I know it’s not what you want to hear, but there are two hotels in town. They’re never full.”
She leans against a stack of tires. “I don’t suppose they’d rent me a room for cash and no questions asked?”
As if she didn’t have my attention before, she sure as hell has it now. Something is definitely going on with her.
“I’m not sure. But you can always call and ask.” I give her the names of the hotels and then step away to give her privacy.
When Dax comes in from the garages and calls out Mr. Kensington’s name, Amelia wakes up, looking scared because her mom isn’t there. I shoot Dax an annoyed glare and walk over to the girl. “Hey, pumpkin. Your mom is right over there on the phone.”
She wipes her eyes with small fists. “Did you fix our car?”
I chuckle at the innocence of her question. “Not quite yet. I had to order some parts that won’t be here for a while.”
“What’s a while? After lunch? Do you have Chick-fil-A?”
I look at the clock, noting it is nearly lunchtime. “We’ve got something much better than Chick-fil-A. We have Donovan’s.”
“What’s Donovan’s? Do they have faffle fries?”
Damn this kid is adorable. “You know, I’m not sure. But I know the owners and the cook, and I’m positive they could come up with some.”
“Mommy! The man says there’s a place with faffle fries better than Chick-fil-A.”
“It’s waffle fries, baby. With a ‘w’.”
I lean in close when Kenna appears at my side. “I kind of like faffle fries better. Has a nice ring to it.”
“Can we go? Please?” Amelia begs, drawing out that last word in the cutest way only little kids can.
Kenna looks lost. “I, um… Mr. Cruz was just trying to be nice, Amelia.”
I clear my throat. “Mr. Cruz was inviting you to lunch.”
“I… I don’t know.”
“What did the hotels say?”
She shakes her head and mutters, “They have to have ID and a credit card.” Then she looks embarrassed, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.
Wait. She doesn’t have ID or a credit card? But her car is literally full of bags, boxes, and suitcases. How does she have all that but no ID?
Feeling it’s not my place to ask, I say, “Why don’t we go to lunch and put our heads together over a plate of faffle fries?”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m sure you’re very busy.”
I wave my hand around the now empty room after Mr. Kensington’s exit. “Yeah, as you can see, we’re bursting with business on this chilly day.”
She glances through the window into the garage bays. “But you have bays filled with cars.”
“And three siblings plus another full-time mechanic to deal with them. It’s just lunch, Kenna. One hour. I do get a lunch break from time to time. I mean, I know the boss.”
She laughs quietly. “Fine. But I’m paying. After all you’ve done, I will not be a charity case.”
I decide not to argue the point until we get the check. Because I have no intention of letting her pay. “Let me just tell someone I’m leaving.”
Amelia dances around the lounge while Kenna attempts to get her into her coat. I can’t help my mile-wide smile at watching them.
I’m so captivated by them, I bump into Mia while backing away.
Mia’s eyebrows touch her hairline. “Big brother, I’ve not seen you this smitten with a woman since… well, ever.”
I scoff. “Smitten?” I roll my eyes. “Please.”
“Carter, you aren’t fooling anyone. And it’s evident she feels the same. There’s an energy between the two of you.”
“We’re fixing her car, Mia. That’s it.”
“Oh, that’s it?”
It was a stupid thing to say considering what comes out of my mouth next. “Well, I’m taking them to Donovan’s while she figures out what to do.”
Mia grins like a six-year-old at the circus. “Great. We’ll hold down the fort. You three kids go have fun.”
I wave off her comment as I get my car keys. Then I look back at Kenna, who’s wrangled Amelia into her coat and is now waiting patiently, staring out the window. She absently tucks a strand of long hair behind her ear and zingers shoot through me.
Energy.
I look back at Mia, who’s still smiling like she’s enjoying a show, and roll my eyes once more.