Chapter 1 #2
"The boy who owns the auto shop has a loft above it," Nadine continues, waving him off. "One bedroom. Lives there by himself. We keep telling him he should help folks when he can, but he keeps to himself. Doesn't let people in easy." She pauses, searching for the word. "Particular."
"Stubborn," Abe corrects.
"Particular," Nadine repeats firmly. "But he's a good man. Quiet. The kind who'd help if someone needed it bad enough—he just won't advertise it."
"Okay but where—where's the shop? Like, how do I find it? Do I just wander around until I see a shop? That seems inefficient. Is there a sign? Please tell me there's a sign because I've done enough wandering today and I'm pretty sure my shoes are melting—"
"Ward and Weller Auto," Sunny says from behind the counter, and when I look over, she's watching me with that same assessing look. "Three blocks west. You'll see it—big red building, can't miss it. But fair warning, Holt Ward's not the chatty type. Don't take it personal if he says no."
"Right. Not chatty. Got it. I can work with not chatty.
I'm extremely chatty so maybe we'll balance each other out?
Like yin and yang but with words? Is that a thing?
I'm making that a thing." I'm already grabbing my stuff, coffee-fueled and manic.
"Okay. Three blocks west. I can do three blocks.
I did half a mile already, what's three blocks?
That's nothing. Thank you—all of you—you're all very kind and I'm sorry for being a disaster in your diner—"
"You're not a disaster, honey," Sunny says, but she's trying not to laugh. "Good luck."
I leave a tip that's probably too generous given my financial situation and grab my stuff. Sunny waves me off when I try to pay for the pie. "On the house," she says. "Good luck, honey. You're gonna need it."
I walk out into the heat feeling weightless. Or maybe lightheaded. Either way, I've got a lead—a lifeline—and something's better than sitting in my dead car waiting for the universe to decide I've suffered enough.
Three blocks west. I can do three blocks.
The auto shop's exactly where Sunny said it'd be—impossible to miss, with its corrugated metal walls and faded red lettering that spells out WARD & WELLER AUTO in letters that must've been bright once but now look sunbaked into submission.
There's a truck parked out front, hood up, and I can hear the clang of metal on metal from inside, someone working.
I stop outside the open bay door, suddenly unsure. What am I supposed to say? "Hi, I'm a stranger, can I live in your space in exchange for money I don't have?" That's not desperate. That's unhinged.
But I'm here, and my car's dead, and I've got nowhere else to go, so I square my shoulders and step inside.
The garage smells like oil and sweat and sun-baked rubber, and it's almost as hot in here as outside, even with the big industrial fans shoving air around. There's a car up on a lift, tools scattered across workbenches, and a guy in a grease-stained tank top bent over an engine.
He's the first one to see me. Straightens up, wipes his hands on his jeans, and grins. "You lost or looking?"
He's maybe thirty, sun-browned and lean, with light brown hair that's never met a comb it liked and gray-green eyes that're sharp despite the easy smile. There's scarring on his left hand, faint but visible, and he moves with an ease that says he's comfortable with strangers.
"Looking," I say. "I heard—someone said there might be space?
Someone named Holt Ward? I don't know if that's you or if there's multiple people here but I was told to ask for Holt Ward specifically and I'm realizing now that just showing up and asking about someone's personal living space is probably deeply weird but my car died and I'm kind of desperate and also possibly experiencing heat stroke—"
His grin falters. Just a little. "Uh. Yeah. He's here."
"Oh good. Great. Can I talk to him? Unless—is this a bad time? It feels like maybe a bad time. You're working. I'm interrupting work. Should I come back? When do you close? Or do I just—"
"You can try." He gestures toward the back of the garage, clearly entertained. "Holt! Got a visitor!"
There's a pause. Then a voice—low, flat, the kind that doesn't waste words—says, "Busy."
"She's asking about your place," the guy calls back, and now his grin's back.
Another pause. Longer this time. Then I hear the scrape of metal, the sound of someone standing, and a man emerges from behind the truck.
Tall. That's the first thing I notice. At least six-three, broad-shouldered with the kind of build that says he's strong from actual work, not from counting reps in a gym.
There's muscle there—real, functional muscle in his arms and chest—but also a softness around the edges, the kind that comes from beer after long days and not particularly caring about definition.
His stomach isn't flat, exactly, but it's solid in a way that makes him look more real than the men in magazines, like he could lift an engine block without breaking a sweat but also wouldn't say no to a second burger.
And he's shirtless, because of course he is, because apparently the universe decided I needed one more thing to deal with today.
There's a rag thrown over his shoulder, and he's covered in tattoos—both arms, black and gray, wolves and clockwork and symbols I can't read from here—ink that crawls up one side of his neck and disappears into short dark hair damp with sweat.
He's got a neat beard, close-cropped and dark, and eyes so blue they're almost unnerving—cold water and deep oceans and things that don't give anything away.
"Jesus. Okay." The words come out before I can stop them.
"You look like the centerfold in whatever magazine straight women hide under their mattresses.
I can't—I'm having a crisis here and you're just standing there looking like that.
This is unfair. This feels targeted. Did someone warn you I was coming? Did you plan this?"
The other guy makes a choking sound that might be a laugh. Holt just stares at me—flat, unimpressed, like I'm a particularly annoying mosquito he's considering swatting.
He doesn't smile. Doesn't say anything. Just looks at me with the kind of assessment that makes me feel seen—every bad decision I've made in the past month laid bare.
"Hi," I say, because someone has to say something and it's always going to be me.
"I'm—my name's Scout. Scout Adler. Which is a weird name, I know, my parents were very into being outdoorsy which is ironic because I'm currently dying in the desert but that's—anyway.
I heard you might have space available? Like, a room?
For rent? I can pay rent. Well, I can eventually pay rent.
I have some money. Not a lot of money but some money and I'm willing to work for the rest and I just need somewhere to stay for a few weeks while I figure things out and I promise I won't be trouble even though I'm aware that showing up and rambling at a stranger makes me seem like exactly the kind of trouble you don't want but I'm actually very quiet usually.
Well, not quiet. I talk a lot. But I'm contained trouble.
Manageable trouble. The kind of trouble that pays rent on time and doesn't break things and—"
"No." Flat. Final.
I blink. "Oh. I thought—Nadine said—"
"No," he repeats, and he's already turning back to the truck, conversation over.
"Wait," I say, and I hate how desperate I sound but I'm too tired to care.
"I can pay. I just need a place for a little while.
I won't be any trouble, I promise, I just—my car died about half a mile outside town and I walked here and I'm—I don't have anywhere else to go and I know that's not your problem but I'm asking anyway because apparently I have no pride left and I'm okay with that—"
He doesn't turn around. "No."
"Holt," the other guy says, and there's something cautious in his voice now. "Come on, man."
"Finn." One word. A warning.
Finn—apparently that's his name—holds up his hands in surrender, but he's looking at me with something close to sympathy. "Sorry," he says quietly. "He's... particular."
"Right," I say, throat tight. "Okay. Sorry to bother you."
I turn to leave, duffel sliding off my shoulder, box awkward in my arms, and I make it exactly three steps before everything hits at once.
The dead car. The money I don't have. The fact that I left everything behind and ended up here, in the middle of nowhere, getting rejected by a man who won't even look at me.
I walk outside into the heat and it's too much—all of it, everything, the sun and the dust and the fact that I'm so fucking tired and I have nowhere to go. I make it to the curb and just... sit. Drop everything beside me. Put my head in my hands.
And I cry.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet, shaking, trying to hold it together and failing completely because I've been holding it together for three days straight and I'm done. I'm so done.
I hear footsteps. Of course. Can't even have a breakdown in private.
"Hey." Finn's voice, cautious. "You okay?"
I laugh because that's such a stupid question.
"Yeah. I'm great. Living the dream. Just sitting on a curb in the middle of nowhere having a totally normal day.
" I wipe my face, not looking at him. "I'm fine.
I'll be fine. I just need a minute and then I'll figure something out because that's what I do, I figure things out, I'm very good at figuring things out even when everything's falling apart and I have exactly—" I check my wallet, hands shaking.
"One hundred and eighty-three dollars to my name after paying for that pie, which was worth it by the way, Sunny makes excellent pie, but that's not enough for a hotel even if this town had a hotel which I'm guessing it doesn't because I haven't seen one and—"
"Scout—"
"And my car's dead. Like really dead. Not coming-back-to-life dead.
I heard the death rattle, Finn. That's a thing that happened.
So I can't even sleep in my car which was honestly my backup plan, sleep in the car for a few nights until I figured something out, but now that's not an option and I walked here in like a thousand-degree heat carrying everything I own which isn't much but it's heavy when you're walking half a mile in the sun and my shoes have holes in them—look, actual holes—and I just asked a stranger for help and he said no which is completely fair, he doesn't know me, why would he let some random disaster woman live above his shop, that's insane, I wouldn't let me live above my shop either if I had a shop—"
"Scout, breathe—"
"I am breathing! This is me breathing! This is me having a totally normal breakdown on a curb in Arizona after running away from my wedding—there, I said it, I ran away from my wedding like some rom-com cliché except it's not funny because Evan was—" My voice cracks.
"And I thought I'd be okay, I thought I'd figure it out, I always figure it out, but my car died and I'm sitting on a curb and I have nowhere to go and I don't even know why I'm telling you this, you don't care, why would you care, I'm just some girl who showed up and made your friend uncomfortable with my stupid centerfold comment which was wildly inappropriate and I'm sorry about that—"
"He's heard worse."
"That doesn't make it better! I shouldn't have said it!
I shouldn't say half the things I say but my brain just—it just keeps going and my mouth can't keep up and now I'm rambling at you and you probably have work to do, actual important work, not sitting here with the crying disaster girl who can't take a hint—"
"You're not a disaster."
I look up at him. He's crouched beside me now, elbows on his knees, looking at me with something that might be concern or pity or both.
"I'm absolutely a disaster," I say. "I'm the definition of disaster. I'm what they show people as a warning about what happens when you make bad decisions and then run away from them instead of dealing with them like an adult—"
I hear boots on gravel. Slow, deliberate.
Holt's standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight, looking at me like I'm a problem he's trying to solve.
Long silence. I wipe my face again, probably smearing dust everywhere, definitely looking like hell.
Then he says, "You run the front desk, you can have the room."
I blink. Finn's head whips around. "Wait, what?"
"Answer phones. File invoices. Show up on time." Holt's looking at me, not Finn. His voice is flat but there's something underneath it—resignation, maybe. "You do that, you stay."
"I—" My brain's short-circuiting. "Are you serious?"
"Three hundred a month. You start Monday."
"I can do that." The words come out too fast. "I'm really good at phones.
And filing. I'm extremely good at filing.
I once organized an entire office supply closet by color and then by frequency of use and then alphabetically within each category and everyone said it was excessive but it worked, it was a very functional system—"
"Seven AM."
"I'll be here at six-thirty—"
"Seven's fine." He's already turning away. Conversation over. But different this time. "Finn, show her the place."
And then he's gone, walking back into the garage like he didn't just change everything.
I sit there on the curb, tears still drying on my face, staring at Finn.
"Did that just happen?" I ask.
Finn's grinning. "Yeah. That just happened."
"Why? He said no. Like three times he said no."
"Because you broke down on his curb and he can't handle that." Finn stands, offers me his hand. "Holt's got a soft spot for lost causes. Don't tell him I said that—he'll deny it and then make my life hell for a week."
I take his hand. Let him pull me up. My legs are shaking. "I'm a lost cause?"
"You're a person who needs help and asked for it. That's all he needed to hear." He grabs my duffel, jerks his head toward the stairs. "Come on. Let me show you your new place. Fair warning—it's not fancy. But it's got a bed and a door that locks and it's yours now."
I follow him, still trying to process what just happened.
I have a place to stay.
I have a job.
I start Monday.
I'm going to be okay.
Maybe.