“I’ll have a pork plate and sweet tea to go.” Willa did a mental calculation for tax and pulled out two fives. More than she should spend, but her stomach vetoed any protest.
Now not only was she saving to fix her car, but she needed a cushion. If she had to move, money was a necessity. Any decent place required a deposit for rent. Not to mention utilities. And how long would it take her to find another job that didn’t require her Social Security number or real name? The thought made her stomach hurt from something other than hunger.
“Make that two for here, Rufus, and I’m buying.”
Willa spun around. Jackson Abbott’s chest filled her vision. The animallike noises her stomach was making must have drowned out his approach.
“Sure thing, Jackson.” Rufus favored them with a grin and turned to dole out barbeque, baked beans, and slaw.
She tucked her hair behind her ear, feeling intensely vulnerable without her steel-toed work boots, coveralls, and ball cap. Her flip-flops, worn-out jeans with a rip at one knee, and a black T-shirt with the emblem of a band she’d never listened to were from the thrift shop down the street.
“You don’t have to pay.” When she found her voice, it was breathy.
“I want to.” His words were low and rumbly and sexy, and she resisted the urge to lay her cheek against his chest, desperate to have someone, anyone, to lean on, even for a moment. Obviously, hunger was impeding her mental faculties.
In the two years she’d lived in Cottonbloom, she’d never run into Jackson outside of the garage. Her forays to secretly watch him race didn’t count since he’d never noticed her. The only place she was a regular was at the library, because it offered free Internet and entertainment—two things she couldn’t afford to waste money on.
Her mental faculties slipped further away as she allowed her gaze to wander over his shoulders before rising. He’d showered, his damp hair darker than its usual rich brown, but hadn’t shaved, his stubble even more pronounced from the afternoon. The scent of soap and clean laundry was mouthwatering in a different way than the barbeque was. The butterflies in her stomach did a slow bump and grind. God, she was hungry for so many things.
Rufus laid a tray with two plates and drinks on the counter. He and Jackson exchanged money. When she went to pick up the tray, he beat her to it, his fingers passing over hers. She hoped he didn’t notice them tremble.
She didn’t protest. Honestly, as weak and off balance as she felt from a combination of hunger and his presence, she might have accidentally dumped it on the floor. And, if she had, she wasn’t sure she had the pride not to grab a fork and scrap off the top.
He unloaded the plates at a two-person table off to the side and nudged his chin toward the opposite chair. Now she was expected to eat across from him and hold a conversation when she wanted to bury her face in the barbeque and inhale it?
Still, he was basically her boss, and he had paid. Which meant she could eat a little better this week or put the extra money toward her escape fund or car repairs. She slid onto the vinyl seat and ripped the spork from its plastic bag. Luckily, he didn’t attempt to engage her in conversation until she’d eaten all her pork and half her beans. She forced herself to go slow, yet he was only a quarter through his pork when she came up for air.
“How’d you end up in Cottonbloom, Willa? You got family ’round here?” he asked as she took a draw of tea.
She sputtered around the straw. Until this moment, the most personal question he’d ever posed involved a list of her ten favorite cars, make and model. “No family. Cottonbloom is a nice town.”
That actually was the God’s honest truth. Cottonbloom had been a pit stop on her way to Jackson, Mississippi. A place to grab something to eat and stretch her legs. She’d wandered down the streets on both sides of the river, window-shopping while enjoying an ice-cream cone she’d splurged on in the cutest little shop she’d ever seen.
At the time she hadn’t realized they were actually two different towns. Cottonbloom, Mississippi, with the ice-cream shop and pizzeria and high-end stores on one side, and Cottonbloom, Louisiana, with the best barbeque in the South and antiques stores and secondhand shops on the other. Something about the river and vibe had drawn her. With an impulsiveness that had gotten her into trouble when she was a teenager, she’d bought a local paper and skimmed the want ads.
“Really?” He sat back in his chair. “You think Cottonbloom is nice?”
“You should know since you grew up here.”
He studied her as if she were an engine with a valve or two stuck, the intensity startling. “Most people think Cottonbloom is an odd place with our divide and rivalries.”
“I think it’s a special place.” Breaking eye contact, she poked at the mound of slaw on her plate. She’d passed through more cities than she could name, some small, some big, all of them hard. Until she’d stumbled upon Cottonbloom and the Abbotts. Finding the ad for a mechanic placed by Abbott Garage had made everything seem fated. And she didn’t even believe in fairy tales.
The sense of safety she’d cultivated was as immaterial as the fog that rolled off the marshes at night. She’d known it would eventually vanish. A couple of good years hadn’t changed the way her luck ran—from bad to worse. She wouldn’t complain or lament the turn. After all, it was no more than she deserved.
“If you think it’s so odd, why hasn’t a single Abbott brother moved on? Not even Ford.” She shoved a sporkful of slaw in her mouth, savoring the flavors. It felt like her last meal before sentencing.
“I can’t speak for the others, but I never considered it.” He shrugged and looked toward a wall covered with autographed pictures of LSU football players. “I wasn’t the best student, but I was good with my hands. Understood cars without trying. I never wanted anything else than to work in the garage with Pop.”
“But he’s gone.” The words were out before she had a chance to stop them. She froze with the last of her slaw hovering midair.
“Yeah, he’s gone.” The only visible reaction was a tightening around his eyes, but his voice held a sadness he worked hard to hide even from his brothers. But she’d noticed.
“I’m sorry. I miss him too.” Her apology and attempt at empathy sounded weak.
She did miss Mr. Hobart though. He had been nice to her and given her a chance when not many others would. He’d been the glue that bound them all together and to the garage. Since his death, an uneasiness that felt vaguely selfish had niggled at her. A countdown had started, and now the end was in sight.
If she was going out, she might as well go out with a bang. Well, not a literal bang. That was out of the question. Although now the thought had been planted, she had a good idea what her dreams would entail that night.
Tentatively, she ran her fingertips over the back of his hand. He didn’t flinch away from her touch. In fact, his fist loosened enough for her to tuck her fingers around his palm for a squeeze. It was like she’d plugged into an electric socket, the zip of energy raising the hairs on the back of her neck.
She’d touched him before of course. They passed tools back and forth with utilitarian expediency. This was different. Compassionate and tender. His hand was strong and the calluses spoke of hard work and expertise.
She let him go, trembling in the aftermath, and concentrated once more on getting food to her belly. She couldn’t afford to think of Jackson like that, the cost too steep for her heart. Admiration from afar was her only option.
He pushed his half-finished plate to the side. Her gaze followed the food before returning to him. His eyes narrowed as he cast a look toward his plate and back to her. “I’m full. You want the rest of mine?”
Most people would demur and say no. Men didn’t like women who ate like horses, did they? It shouldn’t matter what Jackson thought of her. But it did. She battled her pride for all of two seconds before nodding, putting his plate on top of her empty one, and digging in.
She’d run away from home due to pride, fear, and a fair amount of immature stupidity. The intervening years had taught her pride didn’t keep you warm or fed, and she’d shed the useless trait. Fear was her ever-present companion, sometimes roaring, sometimes slumbering. But she hoped she wasn’t as stupid as she’d been back then.
Only since finding her footing at the garage had her feelings of self-worth sprouted like buttercups pushing through the ground after a long winter. This time around she was more cautious. She did her best work at the garage every single day, but she understood there were more important things than pride. Safety for one.
He was silent while she finished his food. Feeling like a stuffed tick, she laid her napkin on top.
“You’re long overdue for a raise. How about ten percent?” he asked.
“Ten percent.” Shock made her voice sound flat even to her own ears.
“All right. Twenty. Do we have a deal?”
The food she’d relished churned in her stomach. He was offering her a raise? Why?
“Jackson Abbott, just the man I needed to see.” Mr. Thatcher strolled over adjusting his suspenders over his potbelly. Jackson half turned in his seat to exchange a handshake and pleasantries.
But no smile. His smiles were rare and fleeting and precious. To her at least. She’d made it her mission to see the dimples that carved furrows in his cheeks at least once a day. Sometimes she succeeded, sometimes she failed, but she never stopped trying.
“What can I do you for, Thatch?” Jackson asked.
“My wife’s car threw a light and is chugging at idle. She’s due to drive down to New Orleans on Sunday for her cousin’s bridal shower. I know tomorrow’s Saturday, but could you take a gander?”
As quiet as a barn owl, Willa scooted out from under the table as the two men discussed logistics. Jackson wouldn’t even notice. He never noticed her in the garage.
He grabbed her wrist. “Wait for me outside. I’ll only be a sec.”
He raised his brows and waited for her to answer even though he’d posed it like an order. Only when she nodded did he let her go, but his gaze heated her back the whole way out.
* * *
Jackson listened to Thatch ramble about his wife’s car for two more minutes before impatience got the better of him. It was chance he’d been driving by and spotted Willa’s car in front of Rufus’s. He didn’t want to press his luck. Escape was not an option.
He rose and clapped the other man on the shoulder. “You bring it by in the morning. We’ll either get her fixed up or give you a loaner.”
“Thanks, Jackson. Knew I could count on you boys.”
Jackson waved two fingers over his head and quick-stepped to the door. Had she waited or hightailed it away? He stopped on the cracking sidewalk. She wasn’t leaning against the bright yellow brick wall or window-shopping.
He scanned the other side of the river and the upscale shops of Cottonbloom, Mississippi. A figure limned by the setting sun stood in the middle of the footbridge that separated Cottonbloom, Louisiana, from Cottonbloom, Mississippi.
The tension across his shoulders flowed out, and his hands loosened from their tight fists. Willa Brown had been his right-hand woman in the shop for the last two years, and he’d taken her for granted. Treated her as if she were a high-end tool like his favorite socket wrench or air hammer. Always there and reliable. She was easy to be around, logical, sane. Funny even.
But now, for the first time, he recognized her as a flight risk. He couldn’t lose her. She was too valuable to the shop. He put the tight clamp around his heart imagining her gone down to indigestion. Even though she’d eaten most of his food.
How could such a little thing eat so much? The hollow look as she’d eyed the heaping plates had given him pause. He did some quick math in his head. Even without the raise, she was making enough to at least feed, house, and clothe herself.
He cast back to that afternoon and her pale, clammy face. Had she nearly passed out from hunger? Maybe she had a parasitic boyfriend or a sick parent. Wyatt was right. He was more in tune with his car than the girl—woman—that had worked at his side for two years.
He crossed the street and walked next to the sparse flowers that were part of the beautification project for Cottonbloom, Louisiana. The cooler nights had sent everything but a few hardy black-eyed Susans dormant. Louisiana was fickle in the winter. Usually mild, she could pop out a few Indian-summer days even in November, then turn around and freeze everyone back into sweaters.
Willa hadn’t seen him yet, and he slowed to a stroll. The last time he’d seen her out of coveralls had been the day she’d applied for the job. Her jeans were worn thin and molded hips that were curvier than the baggy gray coveralls had hinted at.
He blew out a long breath as he considered the way her tight T-shirt further emphasized her femininity. Her hair was a choppy mass of waves almost like she’d cut it herself—without a mirror. But the way she kept it tucked behind her ears was cute.
Most days he never thought about her being … well, a her. Like Wyatt said, she was a prodigy in the garage. He needed to focus on her skills and not on the way her ass filled her jeans as she stood on tiptoe to skip a rock in the water. But seeing her like this, outside of work and casual, skewed his perception. She wasn’t just a female; she was a grown woman. Somehow the distinction seemed important.
“I wasn’t sure you were going to wait.” He cleared his throat after his voice came out low-pitched and too intimate.
“Yeah, well. It’s not like I have any pressing social engagements.” The familiar thread of self-depreciating humor set him at ease. Her next rock skipped three times before it sank.
“You feeling better than you were this afternoon? I was worried.”
She shot him a look from under her lashes that would qualify as flirty from any other woman. This was Willa though. “Were you? I’m fine.”
Her face had lost its pallor and her eyes were bright again. Rufus’s barbeque had restored her. Why was she not eating regularly? He banked the question for later.
“What do you say about the raise?” He joined her, and she shifted to face him, propping her hip against the rail. He was going to catch hell from Mack for offering this raise without consulting him, but Wyatt would have his back on the spur-of-the-moment decision. He always did. And Mack would agree it was the right thing to do after he got over his sulk.
“Sounds too good to be true. What do you want in return?” The wariness in her voice and eyes threw him.
A normal reaction to a twenty percent raise would be happiness. Thankfulness. Relief, maybe. But she seemed suspicious. Fearful even. More questions arose about her history and how she’d landed in Cottonbloom.
“All I want is for you to keep up the good work in the garage.”
“You need to buy Ford out. Why would you waste money on me?”
“Waste?” The word came out harsher than he intended, and she took a step away from him. His breath caught with the thought she might be scared of him. “You deserve a raise, Willa. Don’t fight me on this.”
“All you want is for me to keep working like normal?”
“Keep working at the garage. That’s it.” A string of curses scrolled through his head. What had happened to her? And why was he just now asking himself these questions? He’d always prided himself on doing what was right, but he’d failed Willa. With everything that had happened in the past year, he’d become too self-absorbed.
Too many things hid behind her semisweet chocolatey eyes. Like a predator with prey, he considered other ways to flush out whatever demons chased her. He side-eyed her, an idea popping into his head. “And I’ll need your Social Security number too.”
She turned away from the water, her hands braced on the rail behind her as if she needed the support. “Why do you need that?”
“Mack’s a stickler for the rules and wants everything aboveboard.” A half-truth. Mack would prefer to follow the rules, but he’d be fine paying her under the table as long as she was willing to stay. She didn’t need to know that though.
A look flashed over her face before she recovered to force her lips into the facsimile of a smile. A lie. “First thing Monday morning.”
His heart accelerated. He’d overplayed his hand. Instincts told him she’d be gone. “Not necessary until the first of January.”
“Two more months, then.” She chewed on her bottom lip and turned back to face the river.
“That’s when we’d need to file paperwork. No big deal.” He rested his elbows on the rail and stared at the reeds bending to the water’s will as it flowed south toward the Mighty Mississippi. “It’s not a big deal, right?”
Her silence spoke volumes.
“Do you have a criminal record or something? It’s not like we’d let you go over some youthful mistake.”
“I don’t have a record.”
He heard nothing but truth in her voice, but maybe she was more adept at lying than he gave her credit for. She chafed her arms, looking smaller and more delicate in street clothes than the thick coveralls. He brushed the worries aside. No way was she a felon. Didn’t mean she wasn’t hiding from someone other than the law.
“Who are you running from? You got an ex out there wanting to hurt you?” Even the possibility shattered his usual calm, but he forced his voice into neutral anyway. Ever so slowly, he was peeling away to the heart of the matter, but one wrong move would scare her off.
She heaved a sigh. “It’s complicated, and I don’t want to discuss it any further if it’s all the same to you.”
It involved an ex. Her skirting of his question cinched it. He did want to discuss it further—including a name and address—but he understood. It was the way he felt about discussing his mother or father or Ford or anything of consequence. Cars were easy. Safe. Emotionless.
He was feeling anything but. A sense of vertigo swam through him and turned his stomach. Selfishly, he wanted to know more if only to settle his churning worry, but he wouldn’t get any more out of her about her situation tonight.
He searched for a bland topic. Something safe like cars or the garage. “Like I said this afternoon, you can wear something besides coveralls to work. Something like what you’re wearing now.”
“Believe it not, but these are kind of my nice clothes. I wouldn’t want them to get all greasy.” She ran her hands over her hips and down her legs. He inhaled sharply.
Okay, unsafe topic. Very unsafe. Better to keep her in coveralls at work. If she leaned over the hood of a car in those jeans, he wouldn’t be able to not stare at her ass. Kind of like the way he was staring at her chest right now. He refocused his eyes on the writing across her bustline.
“So you’re a big Outkast fan?” At her obvious confusion, he pointed at her chest. “Your shirt.”
She looked down and splayed a hand over the band’s emblem on the front. “Sure. They’re really great.”
“I didn’t think they were together anymore.”
“Oh well, this is an old shirt. I should toss it.” She seemed flustered and fiddled with the hem as if trying to origami it into something different.
Hadn’t she just told him these were her “good” clothes? Was he dealing with female insecurity? He needed a Cosmo or something as reference.
“Don’t worry about it, you look seriously—” Sexy. The word popped into his head unbidden. His brain riffled for a more innocuous compliment. “Cute.”
He looked to the water and scrubbed at the back of his head. A million other more appropriate words were available, and he’d picked cute? Okay, better choice than sexy, but what in the hell was wrong with him? His brain was misfiring and running on two cylinders.
A laugh spurted out of her. Her face lost its haunted, hunted look. This was the Willa he looked forward to seeing every day. The one he couldn’t imagine not in his life.
“Gee, thanks. You usually reserve that kind of sweet talk for your car.”
First Wyatt and now Willa? He needed to seriously reevaluate his relationship with his Mustang. Right now though, he had more pressing worries.
“I’ll see you Monday, right?” At her extended silence, he added softly. “If your past comes calling, I’ll protect you. I promise. Don’t quit on me, Willa.”
He reached for her hand, much as she’d done in Rufus’s. Her hand was softer than he’d expected considering the type of work she did day in and day out. He rubbed his thumb over the back.
Working side by side, they’d been physically close to each other plenty. Handing tools back and forth, dropping an engine back into a car with the hoist, working in the tight space of the pit together. But this was different in a way he couldn’t quantify.
He stared into her eyes, trying to get a read on her, but too much flickered across her face. Finally, she broke eye contact and looked downriver as if plotting a course away from Cottonbloom. And him. “Of course I’ll be there.”
She was still contemplating running, but he prayed he’d convinced her to stay a while longer. He’d use the time to force her to accept his help. Their hands separated, and he drew his into a fist and tapped the rail, the moment veering into awkwardness.
“You need help with Thatch’s car tomorrow?” she asked.
“Naw. I can handle it. Probably a sensor. You take the weekend off. Relax.”
She gave him a slight nod. “See you Monday.”
He left her, but after he slipped into the sleek leather seat of his Mustang, he waited. Her car was parked around the corner from his, the back end visible. It was a beat-up Honda, probably as old as she was. She walked from the bridge, stopping at the flowers to lean down and touch one, although she didn’t snap it off. Orange light streaking the sky framed her.
She wasn’t cute, goddammit, she was beautiful. Yet she was hiding underneath coveralls in their garage. She disappeared, and her car started with a puff of black smoke from the exhaust.
Hypersensitive to everything about her now, he evaluated her car like a doctor seeing a sick patient. The black smoke was an oil leak from an engine gasket. Not life threatening to the car yet, but her clutch was ready for hospice care. It could go any moment.
She drove away, and he considered following her. Where did she even live? He wanted to kick his own ass. Maybe Mack knew. She’d submitted paperwork her first week at the garage. Surely one of the fill-in-the-blanks had been her address.
His car started with a healthy growl. Usually, he relished the sound of the engine, and the way the car took his direction. Tonight, though, he drove back to the garage on autopilot, his thoughts centered on Willa and the fears that lurked behind the warmth of her eyes and smiles.