10. Ethan
ETHAN
Iwas elbows-deep in Mrs. Collins’ civic, replacing a corroded part when the shop bell rang.
It had been a quiet afternoon. Just me, my tools, and the radio playing soft country ballads that matched the low hum of the ceiling fan.
I didn’t bother looking up. Probably Mark stopping by on his way to the post office, needing to borrow that specialty wrench he always returned three weeks late.
“Hey Mark. The wrench is in the back corner, hanging on the red peg,” I called without looking up. “You can return it Friday. I’m not planning on needing it before then.”
There was a pause, then a familiar voice. “It’s not Mark.”
My heart did this weird stutter thing, like the generator when the load kicked on unexpectedly. I ducked my head a bit lower, giving myself a moment to compose my expression before I looked up.
Lena stood in the doorway, arms wrapped around what looked like a foil-covered dish.
She was wearing dark jeans and a white button-up with the sleeves rolled to her elbows, casual but still put-together in that way of hers.
Behind her glasses, her eyes looked both determined and hesitant, as if she’d talked herself into this visit but wasn’t entirely sure of her welcome.
“Hi,” she said, voice soft enough that I barely heard it over the fan.
“Hi.” I slid out from under the car, wiping my hands on a rag that was mostly clean.
“Didn’t expect to see you today,” I added, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. My voice came out stiffer than I intended it to.
Three days had passed since the festival, a bit longer since the kiss that still replayed in my mind whenever I wasn’t careful. Three days of professional interactions at town meetings and road inspections.
Three days of watching her eyes when she didn’t think I was looking, wondering if what I saw there was real or just my imagination wanting things to be better than they were.
Three days of realizing that her presence in my life was temporary, and there wasn’t a single thing that I could do about it.
“Apparently Marianne has strong opinions about my eating habits,” Lena said, holding up the dish with a small smile. “She says I’ve been working too hard and need a proper meal that didn’t come from a vending machine or my own sad attempt at cooking.”
The foil-covered dish carried the distinctive, mouthwatering scent of Marianne’s beef stroganoff, the special recipe she only made for people she particularly liked.
She served it at my mother’s rehearsal dinner, at Mark’s wedding reception, at Dad’s retirement party.
It was never on the café menu. It wasn’t something she made for just anyone.
I saw the two of them together at the festival, but she must have said something damn special to get on Marianne’s good side.
“That’s... a pretty significant gesture from Marianne,” I said carefully.
“I gathered that from Mrs. Kline’s reaction when I picked it up. She called Ellen at the diner immediately, and they both watched me walk back here with looks that would make CIA agents jealous.”
A laugh escaped me despite my attempt to remain neutral. “That sounds about right for Cedar Hills intelligence operations.”
“Anyway, I thought...” She hesitated, “I thought maybe you might be hungry too. And I was hoping...” She took a deep breath.
“I was hoping that I might be able to bribe you into showing me the overlook. Not the standard version everyone knows about either. The one I keep hearing all the locals whisper about when they think I can’t hear it. ”
The request caught me off-guard. We’d walked the overlook trail a dozen times as part of the project planning, documented sightlines and path usage, discussed guardrail placement and vegetation impact. But this was different.
“Why?” I asked.
I didn’t mean to be rude, but what she was asking for felt almost too intimate.
That place belonged to this town, to me.
I wasn’t sure she was even capable of understanding what it really meant to us. And that made taking her there feel almost wrong.
Something shifted in her expression. It wasn’t defensiveness, but a kind of thoughtful consideration, as if she was weighing how much truth to offer.
“Because I’ve spent three weeks studying the overlook from a professional perspective,” she said finally.
“I know exactly how many feet from the pavement edge to the first drop-off. I know the sight distance, the bank angle, the vegetation impact zones. I know every detail of its physical structure.”
She set the dish on my workbench, stepping closer. “But I don’t really understand why it matters so much to you. To everyone here.” She paused, then added more quietly, “And I want to.”
The honesty in her voice reached past my carefully maintained professional distance. This wasn’t a request about roads or guardrails or town politics.
“I’ll need to finish this first,” I said, nodding toward Mrs. Collins’ car. “Then I’ll grab my jacket. The real overlook isn’t somewhere you want to be after sunset without extra layers.”
Relief softened her features. “I can help if you like? I don’t know a ton, but I take direction well.”
I shot her a look that told her exactly how much truth I thought there was behind that statement.
I handed her a wrench, our fingers brushing. “If you help me finish this, I’ll show you a place that most visitors don’t even know exists.”
She accepted the wrench, her smile warming something in my chest that had been cold since I walked away from her that night after the festival. “Sounds like a bargain to me, Ethan Talbot.”
As we bent over Mrs. Collins’ civic, shoulder to shoulder in the narrow space, I wondered if she understood what she was asking for.
It wasn’t just for a tour of hidden trails and secret viewpoints, but a glimpse of what made Cedar Hills my home.
It felt like the moment before a storm broke, charged with potential.
I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do. But as I watched her concentrate on holding the part steady, her brow furrowed in familiar focus, I knew I’d show her anyway. Because Lena Mercer had found her way past my defenses just as surely as she’d found her way into Marianne’s good graces.
And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t regret it.
After we finished, we washed up at the utility sink in the corner of the shop.
The hot water turned my hands pink, washing away grease and the lingering doubt that had been shadowing me since the festival.
Lena stood close enough that her sleeve occasionally brushed my arm as she reached for a paper towel, neither of us acknowledging the contact or pulling away from it.
Her face in profile was thoughtful. Not the focused professional mask she wore at town meetings, but something more open, as if she’d made some decision and was waiting for the right moment to share it.
“You‘ll want something warmer,” I said, breaking the comfortable silence. “The hidden path gets more wind exposure than the main trail.”
She nodded, drying her hands thoroughly. “I’ll run up and grab my jacket.”
While she was gone, I locked up the shop and retrieved my own jacket from the hook behind the office door.
The one Dad kept there before me, worn thin at the elbows but still perfect for evening hikes.
I checked my watch—5:30 PM. We’d have about an hour of good light before sunset, enough to reach the viewpoint without rushing.
Lena returned wearing a navy windbreaker, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. She’d changed her shoes too. Swapped her usual work boots for hiking shoes that looked well-worn despite her short time in Cedar Hills. The professional consultant had been replaced by someone ready for adventure.
The contrast was so stark, I had to hold back a chuckle.
“We’ll take my truck,” I said, grabbing my keys from the desk. “The path starts about half a mile past the usual overlook trailhead.”
The drive was quiet, neither of us quite comfortable breaking the silence that had fallen between us. We’d spent weeks talking about road specifications and safety requirements, but now I found myself at a loss for words.
Lena stared out the window at the passing trees, her fingers tapping a gentle rhythm against her knee. It wasn’t a nervous tick, I realized after a moment, but the same pattern as the Bach piece she played that first night in the apartment.
I turned off the main road, following a dirt track that was barely visible beneath the overhanging branches. The truck rocked gently over roots and ruts, pine needles scraping against the windows.
“This isn’t on any of the maps,” she observed, watching the narrow path ahead.
“No reason it should be,” I replied, slowing as we reached a small clearing. “It was here before the road. Before the overlook was a destination for anyone but locals.”
I parked beside a fallen log, its surface smooth from years of serving as an impromptu bench.
The forest felt different here. It was denser, wilder, the air carrying the rich scent of decomposing leaves and pine sap.
We stepped out of the truck, and the sound of the engine faded into the gentle rustling of leaves above us.
“It starts there,” I said, pointing to what looked like nothing more than a deer trail disappearing between two massive oak trees. “It’s not maintained, so watch your step. Some sections get steep.”
She followed me without hesitation, close enough that I could hear her steady breathing behind me as we entered the deeper woods.
The path narrowed quickly, forcing us into a single file, my shoulders occasionally brushing against branches that I pushed aside for her.
The forest floor was springy beneath our feet, centuries of leaf litter creating a natural cushion that absorbed our footsteps.
“Why didn’t you show me this path before?” she asked, her voice low. “It would have been relevant to my assessment.”