Chapter 1
Noelle
I did not drive fourteen hours from Austin just to get murdered by some banjo-wielding hillbillies out in the boonies.
But here I was, parked on the shoulder of some backroad in rural Georgia, armed with a quarter-charged phone, a lukewarm coffee, and a growing suspicion that I’d made a terrible mistake.
The GPS had crapped out twenty minutes ago.
My car had started making a noise I could only describe as “skeptical.”
Of course, all of this would’ve fine, manageable at least—if I hadn’t also just seen it in my rearview mirror.
Again.
Not that I believed in that shit…not really. I was a podcaster, not a prophet. Paranormal wasn’t personal—it was content.
At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
…though it was getting harder to believe the darker it got.
My gas meter had dwindled to just below empty by the time I saw any sign of civilization—in this case, a literal sign reading:
WILLOW GROVE — EST. 1834. WHERE THE ROOTS RUN DEEP.
Beneath it was a fluttering banner advertising the town’s annual Cryptid Festival, a coincidence that may have made for a great episode if it weren’t for the fact that I was pretty sure I would have to buy a new car before I made it out of here.
Also? I was going to miss the actual event I was meant to get paid for—a real cryptid convention up in Atlanta, with folding tables and overpriced merch and dudes in Mothman cosplay asking if I’d sign their Yeti mugs.
Instead, I’d be lucky to find a mechanic who didn’t also sell bait worms and Confederate flags.
I coasted down the hill, holding my breath like it would help the gas tank.
There were cars everywhere, lining the streets, parked in every possible spot…
so I guessed it was a pretty big event. I saw the usual: satellite dishes on campers, the requisite bumper stickers advertising that these folks believed.
On the surface, these were my people; but what they didn’t realize was that my moon worshipping bumper sticker was ironic, and that they were about to have a big problem with me.
Because I was the host of the top-charted paranormal skeptic’s podcast in the US.
I scanned for a mechanic shop anywhere…but I was coming up empty, and the car was starting to make this horrible noise. “Come on,” I muttered, stroking the dashboard like the car was a live animal. “Come on, honey…you’ve got this…”
But she did not got this. She was not going to make it.
So I turned into the closest parking lot: a diner swarming with people, a sign reading Mabel’s Table flickering in pink neon over the door.
I’d just barely made it into a parking space…then my car promptly sputtered out and died.
I sat there for a second, gripping the wheel.
People were milling around the lot, festivalgoers in cargo shorts and crop tops, kids with face paint, someone in a full-body bigfoot costume.
Of course—because my life was a comedy written by a cryptid-obsessed god.
I took a deep breath and tried not to cry, praying to said cryptid-obsessed god that no one here would recognize me.
Then I popped the hood and willed myself to get out of the car.
I could already see the smoke seeping out of the engine when I came around the front, could smell the acrid stench of overheated metal.
I waved a hand in front of my face as I reached inside to open the hood—yanked my hand back because it was too warm.
I had to give it a second before I could get it open, trying to survey the damage.
And…well, I had no fucking idea what I was looking at.
What was I even doing right now? I barely ever left Austin; a roadtrip had been a thoroughly bad idea.
I didn’t know the first thing about cars, didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to do.
I pulled out my phone and held it up to my lips, frowning down at the engine like it had personally insulted me.
“Hey Siri,” I muttered. “Where is the nearest mechanic?”
The phone thought about it. Thought hard. A loading screen appeared…but nothing was happening.
“Siri,” I tried again, louder now, as if volume had been the problem. “Where is the nearest mechanic?!”
“I’m right here.”
The voice came from behind me—deep, smooth, and just amused enough to make my spine straighten.
I turned sharply and found a man standing there, tall and broad-shouldered, with sun-kissed skin, a baseball cap tugged low over a mess of dark curls, and green eyes so absurdly pretty they should’ve come with a warning label.
His t-shirt was worn soft with time, the kind that clung in all the right places.
He raised both hands slowly, like I was a skittish animal he didn’t want to spook, then offered a sheepish little wave. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, voice just gravelly enough to make my stomach do something it shouldn’t. “I promise I don’t bite.”
I blinked. “You—uh. Sorry, I’m a little tense right now.”
He glanced around at the festivalgoers, catching sight of the guy in the bigfoot costume. “Is it all the monsters?” he asked. “Because don’t worry…they aren’t real. Not these ones, anyway.”
“Excuse me?”
His face fell, then he nodded toward my car, which was very helpfully still smoking.
“You uh…you were askin’ about the nearest mechanic,” he said. “I’m the nearest mechanic. Actually…the only mechanic.”
I looked around again, like maybe a real garage might materialize out of nowhere.
“You work here?”
He laughed. It was a low, rolling sound—genuine and a little too charming.
“No, ma’am. I work up the street. Just came by Mabel’s to grab dinner with my family and saw your car tryin’ to perform its own last rites.”
I stared at him.
He just gave me a lopsided smile.
“Want me to take a look?” he asked, like it wasn’t obvious I needed him to.
I stopped myself from blurting out a “duh,” trying to remember that this hot stranger was offering to help me for free.
“Yes, please,” I said quietly.
He extended a hand. “I’m Beau, by the way. Beau Ward. Just wanted to make sure to formally introduce myself before I get my hands dirty.”
He didn’t have to say it like that…like getting his hands dirty was hot. Or maybe he just had to say everything that way; he seemed like the type. Still, I extended my hand to shake his. “Noelle Kinney,” I said.
“Noelle,” he smiled. “Pretty.”
I pulled my hand back like I’d touched a live wire—not because he was flirting, but because I reacted to the flirting, felt it deep in my chest, in my stomach, in…other places. I crossed my arms tightly over my chest, tapping my foot against the gravel lot.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s Gaelic. Means ‘stranded in a diner parking lot with a dead car and an army of bigfoot hunters.”
He didn’t flinch; just chuckled and turned back to the engine. “I think that’s the loose translation, yeah.”
I hovered a few feet away as he looked under the hood, moving with an unhurried efficiency that only deeply competent people seemed to possess.
It irritated me. Everything about him irritated me—his ease, his confidence, the way a couple locals walked by and waved at him like he was a local landmark.
I didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust him.
Didn’t trust anything about this place, the darkness closing in, dense woods on every side…
Beau leaned over the engine, frowning slightly as he poked around. “Could I get some light?” he asked.
“Um…yeah,” I said. “Do you want…”
“Just hold the phone right there,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder.
I obeyed, holding the phone flashlight over the engine, my arm over his shoulder.
It brought me close enough to feel his body heat, and it felt annoyingly good.
My elbow brushed against his shoulder, and I stiffened like I’d touched something I wasn’t supposed to. Which, arguably, I had.
Not that he seemed to notice. Or maybe he was just pretending not to.
He kept working, hands moving confidently through the shadows and steam, the smell of hot metal mixing with motor oil and something warmer, more human. It clung to him—not cologne, not sweat exactly, just…him. Like he’d been in the sun all day, fixing things, being helpful, existing.
I hated it.
“Yep,” he said after a beat. “Definitely a cracked hose. Might’ve started a while back, slow leak kinda situation. Radiator’s not looking too happy either. You been topping off coolant?”
“Is that the green stuff or the orange stuff?”
He snorted. “We’ll go with no.”
I lowered the phone slightly. “So what, it’s dead?”
He finally looked at me again, eyes catching in the flashlight’s halo. “Nah. Not dead. Just pissed off.”
I exhaled. “Great. That’s…comforting.”
Beau wiped his hands on the rag tucked into his back pocket and stepped back, giving me space like he knew I needed it. Which was somehow worse. I preferred men who didn’t notice things.
“I can tow it to the shop,” he said. “Take a proper look.”
“And then what?”
“And then I’ll let you know what it needs, how long it’ll take, what it’ll cost.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That easy?”
He shrugged. “Usually is.”
Right. Because everything in small towns was just so easy.
“Unless, of course,” he added, “you’re one of those people who thinks small-town mechanics are out to scam city girls out of their savings.”
I stared at him. “Did you just call me a city girl?”
“Am I wrong?”
He was—technically—but I didn’t answer. He grinned, not smug, but like he’d won a game I didn’t realize we were playing.
“I’ll go grab the truck,” he said, already turning toward the street. “Stay put. Should only take a minute.”
As he walked away, I stayed exactly where I was—arms crossed, phone still clutched in one hand, the flashlight beam swinging uselessly in the gravel at my feet.
Beau Ward was too steady. Too confident. Too nice.
And I knew better than to trust any of that.
Because nice in places like this? It always came with strings.