Tow Trucks and First Impressions
Levi
The garage was quiet except for Jordan humming off-key to something old and twangy, a socket wrench clicking in a steady rhythm in his hand. I leaned against the bay door, sipping the last of my lukewarm coffee and pretending I wasn't already itching for an excuse to ditch.
Then came the low rumble of Tim's tow truck. Jordan didn't even glance up.
"Either that's the part I ordered for that Suburban, or someone's about to become Everwood's latest attraction."
I straightened, just in time to see Tim hop out and wave like we hadn't just seen him yesterday. Then the passenger door swung open, and out she stepped.
Red hair—long, wind-tossed, and wildly defiant. She moved like someone determined not to be impressed by her own bad luck. Her boots hit gravel with a thunk that made Jordan pause mid-wrench.
"Well," he said, under his breath. "Looks like fate got tired of waiting and dropped her off at the curb."
"Fate's got great timing," I muttered, but I didn't take my eyes off her.
She was small, sure, but not fragile. There was a steel thread running straight through her spine, even if her hand shook just the tiniest bit when she reached for the suitcase.
I stayed back in the shadow of the shop—close enough to watch, far enough we didn't all crowd her.
I knew that look. Pride mixed with exhaustion.
It's a cocktail we've all had to choke down at one time or another.
Jordan elbowed me, grinning. "You've got that look again."
"What look?"
"The 'maybe I'll fall in love at the garage' look. Don't do it, Levi. We're still recovering from the yoga instructor debacle."
"She wasn't a yoga instructor," I muttered. "She sold artisanal birdseed."
"Same difference. I'm still finding millet in my glovebox."
The redhead talked to Tim, then Jordan, then she disappeared toward the street, suitcase bumping along like a reluctant dance partner. She didn't glance back once.
"She's headin' toward Janet's," Tim said, watching her retreating figure with the vague reverence of someone watching a comet.
"Only place in town I'd dare send anyone to. Remember the couple I sent to Dawn's place a few weeks ago? Janet's still giving me crap about it. Jordan smirked. "And it looks like you're playing 'Welcome Wagon.'"
I waved him off, crossing the street with aimless purpose.
The diner lights glowed behind her reflection as she passed.
She didn't notice me, not really. Not yet.
But I saw her. She took in the town. It was obvious she didn't want to like it here, especially since she had been stranded here by her truck, but the small smile she wore told me everything I needed to know.
Our little town did precisely what it was supposed to.
It was drawing her in. Couldn't blame her.
Everwood is a charming place, even if you didn't intend on ending up here.
Still, there was something in her walk. Resigned but upright. Like a woman who hadn't given up—just paused to catch her breath.
I followed at a distance, telling myself it was just a coincidence. Just checking in with Janet. Being neighborly and all.
Yeah. Right.
In this case, coincidence wore lipstick and came blowing into town attached to a broken-down pickup. I followed her slowly down Main Street, trying to look nonchalant, until she climbed the front steps of my sister Janet's Everwood Inn.
Passing the furniture store, Mac stopped me for a spell.
He had just come back from fishing and held a to-go coffee in his hand as he bragged about his near-miss.
Mac had a habit of exaggerating his fishing stories.
A two-minute story could last for half an hour or better.
A few minutes later, the little redhead made her way over to the diner.
I glanced up, and her eyes met mine. I forgot all about Mac’s story and his attempt at fishing.
My attention was on her until Mac bumped my shoulder as he joked about the whopper that never was.
When I looked back at the diner, she was gone.
“Well, I better be off. Ann’ll be waiting for me.” Mac ribbed me and got into his truck and drove away while I looked at the Inn, hoping the little redhead was in there.
Janet's inn looked exactly like it always did—warm, cinnamon-scented, and aggressively charming. I think our ancestors designed the town that way to lure in the unwary. The porch light cast a soft glow across the steps, and I swore even the rocking chair seemed smug about its curb appeal.
Inside, Janet stood at the front desk, fluffing a basket of complimentary muffins like she was trying to get them photo-ready for a magazine spread. She looked up, raised one eyebrow, and leaned on the counter like she'd been expecting me since breakfast.
"Levi," she said sweetly, "what a shock."
"I was in the neighborhood."
"You live in the neighborhood."
"Still counts."
She rolled her eyes and handed me a mug of coffee she'd magically poured from thin air. It was piping hot and somehow perfect, which was unnerving.
"You saw her?" she asked, folding her arms like a detective with one solid lead.
"I saw her."
"And?"
I took a slow sip. "Jordan thinks she's fate."
Janet snorted. "Jordan thinks every pretty woman with car trouble is fate. Remember that taxidermist from Idaho?"
"I try not to."
"Well," she said, dropping her voice as she glanced toward the staircase, "this one's different. Quiet. Stubborn. Looks like she'd rather chew glass than ask for help."
My brow lifted. "That's your glowing endorsement?"
"That's my 'don't screw it up, she's interesting' warning. Name's Cassie Grant. Be nice, but not too nice. Don't want to scare her off."
Before I could respond, the stairs creaked overhead. Janet straightened. I leaned against the desk and pretended I didn't care. We both knew better.
Cassie stepped into view, not entirely sure what to do. She paused halfway down the staircase, her hand resting on the banister.
She caught sight of me, then Janet, then me again.
Janet moved first, giving her a soft, casual smile, which she usually gave tourists. "You're just in time. I was about to send my brother Levi here off to dinner, but then I remembered how awkward he is without adult supervision."
Cassie blinked. Once. Then her lips twitched, barely. A maybe-smile.
"No pressure," I said, shaking my head at Janet's not-so-subtle attempt at casual.
"If you're up for it, there's a steakhouse a couple of blocks down.
Decent food, and cornbread that'll make you rethink your life.
Besides, figured you might want something besides vending machine granola bars and coffee. "
She looked at me, then at Janet, and finally down at her clothes. "I'm not exactly dressed for...anything."
"You're dressed for not being stranded on the side of the road," I said. "That's good enough."
Janet handed her the crocheted scarf hanging on the rack as if it were tradition. Cassie took it slowly, still watching us like she expected a hidden camera crew to leap out from behind the fern.
"I guess," she said cautiously, "steak is better than awkwardly eating cookies alone in my room."
I grinned. "That's the Everwood spirit."
She nodded. "Let me grab my coat."
As she disappeared back upstairs, Janet gave me a smug look that screamed, "You owe me."
I didn't argue.
Cassie came down the stairs ten minutes later with a coat that looked like it had weathered a few too many windstorms and a scarf—her own—knotted around her neck like she was gearing up for a voyage across the Arctic.
She handed Janet's "nobody comes dressed for a chilly evening in the mountains" scarf back with a smile.
But there was a glint in her eye now—she'd sized up Everwood and decided to give the place a second chance.
Or maybe she'd just decided not to run for the hills. Either way, I'd take it.
Janet, never one to leave well enough alone, pressed a small container into her hands on the way out. "Cookies for the road," she said with a wink. "For emergencies. Or for Levi's driving."
"I drive just fine," I muttered.
"That's what all the overconfident ones say," Janet replied.
Cassie laughed—actual, real laughter—and the sound landed somewhere deep in my ribs. Unexpected and oddly welcome.
I held the door open as we stepped onto the porch. The evening air had turned cool, with just enough bite to remind you that fall was serious business in Everwood. My truck was parked at the curb, looking like the battered old workhorse it was.
Cassie eyed it like it might bite.
"Don't worry," I said. "She's got personality, but she's solid."
"I feel like that should be your Tinder bio."
I chuckled. "Only if I wanted to attract women who think rust is a love language."
I opened her door and offered a hand without thinking. To my surprise, she took it. Didn't squeeze, didn't linger. Progress.
The cab of the truck smelled faintly of pine from the air freshener I'd wedged into the vents last week and stronger still of the leftover half of BLT from lunch I'd forgotten to remove. She buckled her seatbelt like a soldier preparing for maneuvers.
As we rolled down Main Street, the town put on its usual evening show—porch lights twinkling on one by one, an older couple walking hand-in-hand past the library, the faint sound of a guitar drifting from somewhere behind the diner. Cassie watched it all, quiet and thoughtful.
"Seems like a Hallmark set," she murmured finally.
"Only with more cranky livestock and fewer spontaneous dance numbers."
She smiled again, but this one came easier.
We pulled into Will's gravel lot, headlights sweeping across a few familiar trucks and the Collins's rusted-out minivan that had been threatening to die for six years and counting. I killed the engine and turned toward her.
"You sure you're up for this?"
She glanced at the warm lights spilling from the restaurant windows, then back at me. "If the cornbread's as good as you say, I'll risk it."