Chapter 4
Sally
Nolan takes corners like a rally driver, which is impressive, given that the thing is basically a square rolling on four squeaky bolts.
I grip the handle above the window because my survival instincts are alive and well, thank you.
He notices. “Relax. I drive better than you think.”
“I haven’t seen you drive at all,” I shoot back.
“Exactly.”
I stare at his profile, his square jaw, stubble, ridiculously long lashes that would make a mascara ad weep, and decide this man is allergic to unnecessary words. Or smile lines.
The truck bumps into the Spur and Spoon parking lot. The neon sign in the window flickers like it’s about to call it quits, but the smell of fried heaven wafts through the cool night air, and my stomach wakes up screaming feed me, or I’ll eat you from the inside.
I exhale. “I love this place. Smells like angels took up grilling.”
He nods. “Burgers are good.”
When we step inside, the bell above the door gives a cheerful little jingle totally at odds with Nolan’s growly vibe.
Spur and Spoon is Clover Canyon’s one-stop for comfort food. Pies rotate behind glass like edible trophies, the burnt-orange booths have softened with time, and the coffee is strong enough to wake up half the town.
Wanda, a server with a gray bouffant and cat-eye glasses, does a double take when she sees Nolan, and her eyebrows shoot up when she notices me trailing behind him.
“Well, I’ll be,” she says loud enough to be heard three counties away. “If it ain’t Mr. Lone Wolf himself, and he’s brought the lovely Sally.” Her grin could light up Vegas. “Date night?”
I open my mouth to correct her.
Nolan beats me to it.
“No,” he says, flat and immediate.
Ouch.
Her eyebrows climb higher. “Right. Sure. Two menus, or should I just bring you your usual, tough guy?”
He mutters something that is probably not polite and heads for a booth in the corner. I follow, half dying of secondhand embarrassment and half weirdly charmed.
“It’s fine,” I say as we slide into the booth. “I didn’t think this was a date.”
Liar, liar, hair on fire.
He doesn’t respond, which… doesn’t help.
Wanda gives me a wink as she returns to drop off two glasses of water.
“I like Wanda. She’s one of a kind,” I whisper once she’s gone.
“She’s nosy,” he counters.
“It’s called being friendly.”
“It’s called meddling.”
I grin. “You say tomato, I say social skills.”
He glares at me. “I have social skills.”
I wait.
Two whole seconds pass. He says nothing else.
I raise an eyebrow. “Okay.”
Something flickers at the corner of his mouth. The tiniest tug as if his lips are testing the concept of smiling after too many years of forgetting how.
Wanda returns with her pad at the ready. “What can I get you kids? And please don’t tell me salad. It’s late. Live a little.”
Nolan doesn’t hesitate. “Double cheeseburger. Fries. Extra pickles.”
She scribbles, then looks at me. “And for you, sweetheart?”
“I’ll have exactly that,” I decide. “Except no pickles.”
Nolan gives me a look that says who doesn’t like pickles?
Wanda totals the order and squints at him. “You okay, hon? You’ve got that look. Like you just found something you didn’t know you were missing.”
Nolan’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Our Sally here is a good girl.” Wanda says it like a warning, but my chest warms at being called “our Sally.”
This town has really embraced me since I lost Grandpa. They brought casseroles and car stories. Left flowers on the porch. Offered to fix things at the house I didn’t know needed fixing.
Nolan glances at me. “Never doubted it.” Then he gives Wanda a pointed look. “Pretty sure this is a diner, not a confessional. And I’m hungry.”
“Yes, I think you are.” She pats his hand and sashays off, as if her work here is done.
His eyes warm a degree. Barely noticeable, except I’m paying dangerous amounts of attention.
“So,” I say, trying to be casual, “how did you end up working at Clover Canyon Autos?”
“Moved here from Tangle Creek a few months ago,” he says, naming the town an hour west of Clover Canyon. His expression tightens as if he left bad memories behind, and I wonder if a woman was involved. “George needed someone to help out, and who gave a damn about the work. I give a damn.”
“That sounds like a glowing self-review.”
One eyebrow lifts, accompanied by that near-smile again. “I don’t lie about what I’m good at.”
“And you’re good at fixing things.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t look away. “Engines. Metal. Stuff that tells you when it’s breaking.”
I know what he’s not saying: not people.
“Your hands must get tired,” I say, not thinking until it’s too late how that sounds.
His eyes drop to my mouth. “They do.”
My pulse forgets how to pulse.
Wanda appears and plunks down the food just in time to save me from combusting.
“Holler if you need anything else,” she says with a warm smile before moving away to serve another customer.
The burger looks sinful. I take a bite and moan before I can stop myself.
Nolan chokes on air. “That good?” he manages.
“Religious experience,” I say, mouth full. “I would marry this burger.”
“Thanks,” Wanda calls from the counter. “But he’s too young for you.”
I cough-laugh and hide my face in my napkin.
When the food settles and my dignity returns, I pull out my camera and aim it toward the table.
“Do you mind if I grab a quick clip of the ‘fuel stop’ for my episode intro?”
He looks at the camera as if it’s a bomb. “Why?”
“To show the real process,” I explain. “Restoring a car isn’t glamorous. It’s long nights and greasy burgers.”
He eyes me. “You’re not filming me.”
“No,” I promise, trying to look trustworthy and not like I’m dying to record every flicker of his expression. “Just the food. Maybe a voiceover later.”
He nods, but he keeps his gaze locked on the lens like it’s plotting to steal his soul.
I hit record and narrate. “Update: Mustang Sally is being difficult, but I’ve dragged her to the only mechanic who apparently works after dark. This burger is my only comfort in these trying times—”
Nolan snorts. Actually snorts. It’s a soft, surprised sound like a laugh escaped him by accident.
I grin at the camera. “Ignore the noise. That was definitely not the growl of a grumpy man trying to enjoy his fries.”
He leans forward as I pan across the table—his arm, his hand, that vein that runs along his forearm. My viewers are going to have opinions about that.
I stop recording before my audience gets their first crush on him. I’m not ready to share.
When the plates are clean, he pulls out his wallet.
“I can pay,” I say quickly.
“I know.” He stands, tossing bills onto the table. “But I invited you out. It’s on me.”
I frown. “You said this wasn’t a date.”
“It’s not.” His gaze flickers to my mouth again, betraying him. “But it’s still on me.”
Heat pools beneath my skin at the implication.
The night air curls cool around us as we walk outside. Fireflies dance across the parking lot like someone sprinkled enchantment over Clover Canyon.
He opens the truck door for me again. My heart does a full flip. Not an accident this time.
Inside, the air feels charged, as if every molecule knows something is sparking between us and is just waiting for ignition.
As he drives, I steal a glance. His jaw is tight. He grips the wheel like it’s holding him together.
“You don’t have to help me,” I say quietly.
His eyebrows lower. “I know.”
“So… why are you?”
A long silence. Then: “Because you give a damn.”
About the car. About the memories. About doing things right.
“And that matters to you?”
“Yeah,” he replies, his voice deep, rough, and honest. “It does.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I let the warmth of that truth settle in my chest.
When we reach the garage, he kills the engine but makes no move to get out. Neither do I.
A question hangs in the air between us. Something about boundaries and lines neither of us planned on crossing tonight.
He turns to me. “Tomorrow night, we’ll start tearing down the fuel system properly.”
Relief and excitement flow through me along with anticipation that feels suspiciously like longing.
“I’ll be here,” I whisper.
“7 PM. Don’t be late,” he says, but there’s no bite to it this time.
We sit there for a moment longer in silence, the kind that vibrates.
Then he clears his throat and looks away as if he’s ashamed of how gentle he just was. “Go home, Sally.”
“Okay,” I say, smiling.
He watches until I’m buckled into my Jeep. His gaze stays on my car until the road curves, and he disappears.
And even then, I can still feel it. Low in my belly. Hot as a spark.
This isn’t just about a car anymore.
Not even close.