Tempted By the Single Dad Mechanic (Curvy Wives of Blackwater Falls #2)

Chapter 1 - Morgan

The car makes a sound like something dying.

Not metaphorically. Actually dying. A grinding, shrieking wail that sends a flock of birds exploding from the trees lining Main Street. I'm gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles go white as I coast, because the gas pedal has stopped doing anything at all.

"No, no, no, please," I whisper, like begging has ever fixed a mechanical problem.

The car doesn't care. It shudders once more, lets out what I can only describe as a mechanical death rattle, and goes silent.

I sit there for a moment, hands still locked on the wheel, staring at the faded blue hood that's been my closest companion for six months. My home. My transportation. My entire life, packed into a 2008 Honda Civic that apparently has just given up.

"Okay," I say out loud, because talking to myself has become normal somewhere between Colorado and here, wherever here is. I glance out the window at the hand-painted sign I passed thirty seconds ago: *Welcome to Blackwater Falls*

I'd been planning to drive through. Maybe stop for gas and a bad cup of coffee. Keep moving, because that's what I do now. That's what we were supposed to do together.

The journal is on the passenger seat, the one Annie gave me two Christmases ago. *For our adventure,* she'd written on the inside cover, her handwriting looping and confident in a way mine never was.

I don't pick it up. If I pick it up, I'll cry, and I've done enough of that today already. Instead, I grab my phone and search for "mechanic near me." One result pops up: Casey's Automotive, 0.2 miles away.

"Well," I tell the empty car. "At least you died in a convenient location."

I gather my purse, double-check that my wallet is inside. It is, though the cash situation is getting dire, and step out into the afternoon heat. It's late September, but this town apparently didn't get the memo that fall is supposed to be cooling down.

The walk to Casey's Automotive takes about five minutes. It's a small building, white paint peeling slightly around the edges, with a garage bay open to reveal a pickup truck on a lift. The sign above the door is simple, professional: *Casey's Automotive. Honest Work, Fair Prices.*

I'm about to find out if that's true or just good marketing.

The bell above the door chimes when I push it open, and the first thing I see is a little girl.

She's sitting at the front desk, which is really just a battered wooden counter with a computer that looks older than she is, with a stack of coloring books and a box of crayons scattered around her.

She has dark curly hair pulled into two lopsided pigtails, and when she looks up at me, her smile is missing a tooth.

"Hi!" she announces, like my arrival is the best thing that's happened all day. "Are you a princess?"

I blink. "What?"

"You have pretty hair," she says, pointing at my messy braid. "Like Rapunzel. Are you a princess?"

Before I can figure out how to answer that, a voice calls from the garage: "Riley, what did I say about bothering customers?"

"I'm not bothering! I'm asking!"

"Same thing," the voice says, and then a man walks through the doorway from the garage, and I forget how words work.

He's tall. That's the first thing. The second thing is that he's not wearing a shirt.

Just... not wearing one.

I'm staring at a chest that looks like it was carved out of marble, all defined muscle and smooth skin, with a light dusting of dark hair that trails down toward the waistband of his jeans.

His arms are massive, biceps flexing as he wipes his hands on a rag that's already so covered in grease it can't possibly be doing any good.

His face is somehow both rugged and boyish: strong jaw, dark stubble, hair that's a little too long and falling into eyes that are startlingly blue. And when he sees me staring, he smiles.

It's not fair. Nothing about this is fair.

"Sorry about that," he says, and his voice is warm, amused. "Riley's convinced everyone who walks in here is either a princess or a superhero."

"Last week a mailman was Batman," Riley adds.

I manage to find my voice, though it comes out higher than normal. "That's... that's okay. I don't mind."

He tosses the rag onto the counter and extends a hand, then seems to remember it's covered in grease and pulls it back with a sheepish grin. "Casey Brennan. Owner, mechanic, and apparently terrible at keeping my kid entertained."

"I'm very entertained," Riley protests.

"You're coloring the same page you colored yesterday."

"It's a different color!"

Casey shakes his head, but he's smiling, and there's something about the way he looks at her, fond and exasperated and absolutely devoted, that makes him utterly captivating.

Annie would have loved this. The small-town mechanic shop, the adorable kid, the whole Norman Rockwell painting of it.

"I'm Morgan," I say, pulling myself back to the present. "Morgan Fletcher. My car just died about two blocks from here, and I… I need help."

His expression shifts immediately, the amusement fading into something professional and focused. "What kind of noise was it making before it died?"

"Like... grinding? And then shrieking? And then nothing at all."

He winces. "And you coasted here?"

"I coasted to the side of the road and then walked here."

"Smart." He grabs a clipboard from behind the counter, flipping to a blank work order form. "Where's it parked?"

I give him the street name, though in a town this size, "two blocks down on Main Street" is probably specific enough, and watch as he jots down notes in handwriting that's surprisingly neat for someone covered in motor oil.

"Have you been having any other problems with it?" he asks. "Trouble starting, weird smells, dashboard lights?"

"The check engine light's been on for... a while."

He looks up, one eyebrow raised.

"Three months?" I admit.

"Morgan."

"I know, I know! But it was still running, and I thought—"

"That it would fix itself?"

"That it would hold out a little longer."

He sighs, setting down the clipboard. "Okay. I'll need to tow it here and take a look, but based on what you're describing, it could be anything from a timing belt to transmission failure."

My stomach drops. "How much does that cost?"

"Depends on what's actually wrong. Could be a couple hundred for a belt, could be a couple thousand for a transmission."

I must look as panicked as I feel, because his expression softens.

"Let me take a look first," he says. "No charge for the diagnostic. We'll figure out what's wrong, and then we can talk about options."

"Options," I repeat weakly.

"Payment plans, used parts, that kind of thing. I'm not going to leave you stranded."

It's such a simple statement, but something about the way he says it, calm and certain, like it's not even a question, makes my throat tight and happy that I seem to have found an honest worker.

"Thank you," I manage.

Riley, who's been surprisingly quiet during this exchange, pipes up again. "Are you staying in Blackwater Falls?"

I glance at Casey, then back at her. "I... don't know. I was just passing through."

"You should stay," she says, with the confidence of someone who's never doubted her own opinions. "We have a really good diner. And a park. And my pre-K has a turtle named Mr. Shellby."

"Riley—"

"What? She should know about Mr. Shellby. He's important."

Casey looks at me with an expression that says *I'm sorry my child is like this,* but I'm smiling despite everything.

"Mr. Shellby sounds very important," I tell Riley seriously.

She beams.

Casey clears his throat. "I'll head out and tow your car in now. Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes. You're welcome to wait here. There's a chair by the desk, and Riley will probably talk your ear off, but she's harmless."

"I'm very harmless," Riley agrees.

I hesitate. "Are you sure? I don't want to be in the way."

"You're not." He's already heading toward the garage, grabbing a shirt, thank God, from a hook on the wall and pulling it on.

It's a faded gray t-shirt with Casey's Automotive printed on the back, and it clings to his chest in a way that really doesn't help my situation.

"Besides, can't leave a customer stranded on Main Street. Bad for business."

He says it lightly, but I get the sense he'd do it even if it was bad for business.

The bell chimes as he heads out, and then it's just me and Riley. She looks up from her coloring book, studying me with the kind of unfiltered curiosity only small children can get away with.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" she asks.

I choke on air. "What?"

"A boyfriend. My friend Sophie's mom has a boyfriend and he's really tall and he brings her flowers."

"I... no. No boyfriend."

"Why not?"

"Riley," I say gently, "that's a really complicated question."

"Is it because boys are gross? Sophie says boys are gross."

I can't help it. I laugh. "Sometimes, yeah."

She nods sagely, like I've confirmed a universal truth, and goes back to her coloring. I sink into the chair by the desk, letting my purse drop to the floor beside me. The adrenaline from the car dying is starting to wear off, leaving me exhausted and a little shaky.

This wasn't part of the plan. Not that there was much of a plan to begin with: just drive, see things, keep moving. Don't stop long enough to think about the empty passenger seat.

But now I'm stuck. In Blackwater Falls with a dead car and a bank account that's running on fumes.

I pull out my phone and open the notes app, where I've been keeping a running list of the towns I've passed through.

I add *Blackwater Falls* to the bottom, and for a moment, I imagine telling Annie about it.

*There's this mechanic,* I'd say. *He's ridiculously hot and he has the cutest kid and I think my car might be dead for real this time.*

She'd laugh. She'd tell me it's fate. She believed in that kind of thing—destiny, meant-to-be, the universe conspiring to put people in the right place at the right time.

I never did. Not really.

But sitting here, in this tiny shop that smells like oil and rubber, listening to Riley hum while she colors, I think maybe I want to.

Just a little.