That last part wounded my pride enough that I caved. “I’m not running off,” I promised. “I’m actually here about a job. I have a final meeting tomorrow. If all goes well, I’ll be sticking around a few months, actually. I figured I’d do a motel for a day or two, and then, if the job sticks, I’ll see about an apartment.”
“Huh.” Frank gave another grunt, same as before. I still had no idea what the sound meant but this time, there was a flash of something in his eyes before it disappeared again. “No apartments available this time of year,” he continued. “All the kids just got back from college. You need a room rental, Casey’s got one up for grabs if you’re not picky. Although short-term stuff is best kept over at the Holiday Inn in Windsor.” His lips twitched and he added, “Your sanity is best kept there too when faced with those two choices.”
He chuckled at what I assumed was an inside joke since I had no idea what he meant. Was this Casey chick crazy? But I did need a room. And Windsor was not an option. Besides, the job I’d come to consult on was at least in this same town so maybe I could walk to work for a while. Or buy a bicycle or something. Hell, if this heat kept up maybe I’d buy an ice cream truck instead.
I shrugged. “Tell whoever Casey is, as long as it’s clean and roach-free, I’ll take it.”
I spent the next thirty minutes at the shop waiting for Frank to arrange the tow. Even though it was only up the hill, it was a bitch of a hill, especially in this humidity. Given the choice, I’d pay for the truck to drag it rather than have to push it myself. Not that Frank gave me the choice. And for that fact alone, I was warming up to him.
Frank stood behind the counter, jabbing at the keys on an ancient, faded keyboard with a frown that somehow still managed to hold his toothpick inside his lips. “This damn computer will be the death of me. Can’t hardly look up a simple parts list without reloading the page sixteen times,” he muttered.
I would’ve offered to help—but technology and I didn’t much get along either. Even my phone was a basic model. For a city girl, I sure was behind the curve of “modern.”
“Sorry, I’d help if I could, but anything with a cord and plug is allergic to me,” I admitted.
Frank chuckled. “I thought all the young people had the magic touch with machines.”
I shrugged. “I was too busy with Legos and blocks to care much for electronics.”
Frank grunted and I finally realized the sound was meant to be an agreement. Or approval. “I like that. You and I will get along just fine. Too damn many kids with no imagination anymore.”
He was friendly, I realized, as I leaned against the wall next to the window unit and listened to him chatter. Perceptive as hell, a quality that put him just this side of nosy. Still. He didn’t push.
“So, what brings you to Grayson?” he asked.
I hesitated and his eyes flicked to me before settling back on the ancient computer screen whose keyboard he was plucking away at. I played with the cap of the second bottle of water I was nursing, going over my prepared story once mentally before I spoke out loud.
“My dad grew up a couple of counties over,” I said carefully. “I had some time between jobs back home and when the Stafford project posted, I thought I’d spend some time here, see small town livin’, as he called it.”
Frank’s brows drew together, his expression forming a question. Before he could ask the only one I didn’t want to answer, I pushed on in a different direction. “I grew up in Hartford. Big city compared to all this,” I said, waving a hand.
“I guess it is, isn’t it? What sort of work do you do, then?” he asked. Eyes back on the computer. Good. Dodged it.
I relaxed. Let more of my weight fall back against the wall. This I could talk about all day. “I studied architecture and design, but I’ve recently branched into building restoration. Old houses mostly, although I’ve done some urban planning and development as well.”
I fell silent as a pang went through my chest. The restorations had been something Dad and I had fallen in love with together. In fact, I’d taken the new construction here in Grayson on purpose. Nothing to remind me of the way he and I used to spend hours watching the Home & Garden channel and arguing over how we would’ve done the restore differently—and better—than the hosts.
“That right? You should’ve talked longer with Ford. He’s looking to build a place up on the hill. Summer, his fiancé, says she wants southern classic.”
The hill. This place was so small, he’d called it “the hill” like there was only one. It made me smile. “Sounds like a fun project. Coincidentally, the job I’m here to consult on is a southern classic design. Antebellum with a dash of contemporary, the email said.”
Frank chuckled. “Yep. That must be Summer, Ford’s girl. She’s particular enough to be doing the legwork although her daddy, Dean, is footing the bill. Wedding present.”
I snapped my fingers. “Dean Stafford, that’s the one.” I wasn’t even surprised he knew them. “The project sounds interesting. The proposal had a nice mix of the traditional and modern. I like Summer’s vision. Hopefully, I’ll get to work on it.”
He nodded, glancing over. The gleam was back. “That room of Casey’s might be perfect after all. It’s not far to the Stafford’s place at Heritage Plantation. More than likely, you’d be able to catch a ride up the hill in the mornings. Then again, I guess it’s a doable walk to the hill itself, if you’re sturdy.”
“I’m not fragile.”
He eyed me. “No, I imagine you’re not. I’ll take you over when we’ve finished here then.”
Something about his sharp eyes made me shift. I wanted to ask what he’d meant about my sturdiness but couldn’t bring myself to voice it. For the first time since leaving Hartford, I wished Gavin had come with me. But no, I told myself, he needed to be with his unit. Besides, this was for me. I’d made Dad a promise, and since that promise was all that I had left of him, I intended to see it through.
The tow driver showed up with the Nissan and ten minutes later, Frank had it stored in the garage in an open bay. I stood outside and watched Frank pull the bay door closed and then did the same with the heavy front door. It stuck and he gave it a final yank to secure it in place before turning toward an old pickup.
“You’re not going to lock up?” I asked.
“It’s secure,” he assured me. I waited for him to elaborate with details about an alarm system I’d failed to notice but he didn’t. Maybe if my car had been worth more than the deductible, I’d care. As it was, he stood more to lose than I did. So I let it go.
Frank chattered as he drove us down the hill and turned right, the same way Ford had driven off. Anytime he asked me a question that aimed for personal, I redirected with a topic change about building design and Grayson town history. It worked, but made me wonder if I was really fooling him or he was just trying to be polite. That look in his eyes earlier had said he didn’t miss much.
“How long have you been running the garage?” I asked when the town gave way to trees and I ran out of buildings to question him on.
“I’ve owned it since my pop, Lord rest his soul, passed it to me. But I only work it one or two days a week as needed. Most folks go to Windsor, to the big dealerships nowadays. The rest of the time I’m foreman over at Heritage Plantation, Dean’s place. I’m not too bad with a wrench but I’ll take a spade and soil over engine grease any day.”
I smiled because, based on his wistful tone, he meant it. And I knew exactly how he felt. It was the same warm fuzzies I got when I restored an old house or designed a classic concept for new development. Gavin always teased me for being so logical but the truth was architecture was emotional for me. Always had been.
“What sort of plants do you grow there?” I asked.
Frank slowed to take a hard left onto a dirt road I would’ve missed on my own. The truck jostled as the pavement ran out underneath its aged tires and gave way to packed gravel and dirt.
“Everything from corn
crop to chrysanthemums to experimental herb remedies. My green thumb falls somewhere in the middle. I like the sort of thing that can dress up a space, be it greenery or color, but I’m not too picky as long as it keeps me out in the fresh air.”
I snorted. “Whatever this air is, I wouldn’t call it fresh.” Stale, oppressive. Heavy. Not fresh.
Frank chuckled. “Hartford doesn’t have humidity.” It was somewhere between a statement and a question.
I shook my head. “Not like this.”
“Not many places in the world are quite like this,” he agreed and this time there was pride in his words.
I shifted tactics again. Best to keep the conversation jumping around. “So, about Casey and this room. Maybe we should’ve called first. Or texted. Is it all right to just show up?”
“Nah. It’s fine. Casey’s more of the show-up kind anyway. And,” he paused to give me a onceover, “you’re definitely going to have more of a shot at the room if you show up.”
I opened my mouth to ask about that one but Frank continued, “Casey doesn’t normally do roommates. Bad experience way back, I think. But the room is empty and, well, a little help with the mortgage doesn’t hurt. I think there’s a certain Yamaha dirt bike that’s beggin’ to be bought.”
“Casey’s into dirt bikes,” I said, surprised.
Frank chuckled. “Casey’s never not been into dirt bikes.”
I sat back and pictured that. I couldn’t help but be impressed over a girl who rode. Maybe this roommate thing could be cool.
The truck jostled over several potholes where the gravel had been rubbed away and then Frank pulled up to a small house nestled between a break in the trees. It was in good condition with solid, inexpensive framework. Not cheap, though. That was good. The roof looked fairly new and the porch was a cute little thing with the perfect corner for a swing and—
Shut up, Jordan. It’s not like it’s yours. Who cares?
A garage painted in deep red to match the shutters sat to the right. Parked off to the side was a beat-up truck that could’ve been a twin of Frank’s if not for the ugly brown color. Frank’s was at least a discernible shade of green.
“End of the line,” Frank said. He didn’t move to get out so I assumed he meant end of the line for me. I got out and grabbed my bag from the truck bed. As I stood there in the dirt, a twinge of uncertainty twisted in my gut.
I was in the middle of nowhere. No car. No friends for hundreds of miles. No one even knew where I was, not exactly. Shit, why hadn’t I texted Gavin on the way here to let someone know? And, in a moment, I’d be stranded with no way back to civilization. What if this Casey chick did, in fact, turn out to be crazy?
Frank leaned toward me and spoke through the open window. “Truck’s there so just knock on the door and you two can work it out. Casey doesn’t bite. But if you want a ride to the Holiday Inn, just call me and I’ll come and get you.”
I nodded and typed in his number as he rattled it off. “Thanks,” I said, feeling slightly better to have a contact out here.
“No problem. I’ve got to take a look at a sick tractor or I’d walk you in.” He looked genuinely concerned now. Was my expression that terrified?
You’re a grown-ass adult, Jordan. Geez.
“No, no. I’m fine.” I forced a smile. Forced myself to mean it. “Really. You go ahead. I’ll call you if I need you. And I’ll talk to you soon about the car.”
Frank nodded. “Yep. We’ll chat soon. Good to meet you, Jordan. Good luck.”
“Thanks. For everything,” I added.
Frank smiled and gave me a sort of wave-salute.
I stepped back and watched him swing wide into a U-turn before heading back to the road in a gravelly cloud of dust.
When the truck was gone, I turned back to the little house. No time to rethink it. You’re here. Daddy’s voice was so clear in my head, it made me smile: The only move is forward.
I took a deep breath. And made my move.
Chapter Two
Casey
My back ached and itched all at once. I’d been down here too long and the angle coupled with the heat was making my job as the tractor expert for Heritage Plantation—among other things—pretty fucking miserable today. Something wet and black dripped from the pipe above and landed square-center on my forehead.
“Donkey balls,” I muttered, my mood darkening even more when I realized the drip had come from a leak in the seal I’d just replaced.
“What’s that?”
I jumped at the unexpected sound of company. The black liquid smeared as my forehead dinged against the underbelly of the tractor, otherwise known as Goose. A second later, Frank’s boots appeared.
“Donkey freaking balls!” I said, loud enough there’d be no mistaking it this time.
“Oh,” was all I heard from Frank. The closest thing to a dad I had, Frank was still a bachelor at heart. Rough around the edges despite his soft center—which meant we both enjoyed a colorful range of verbal expression. I appreciated it, along with everything else he’d ever done for me, including raising me after my own parents had died in a car crash when I’d been barely out of diapers.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the thudding reverberating across the front of my skull and slid free of the tractor.
“What do you need?” I snapped, getting to my feet.
“Didn’t realize you’d still be here.” He frowned.
“Yeah, well, Goose doesn’t have enough sense to coordinate with a proper quittin’ time.” I slammed a screwdriver down on the workbench and ran a hand over my pants, trying to wipe off some of the dark stains.
Frank wasn’t exactly the rightful target of my irritation seeing as he wasn’t made out of metal, but he’d just caused me to smack my face against an oil-filled pipe. Instead of getting irritated back—Frank was way too used to my here again, gone again temper for that—he gestured to my forehead. His brows knitted, either in concentration or uncertainty as to whether he should mention it. “You’ve got, uh, something on your…”
“I know.” I swiped at the oil staining my skin. My forearm came away with a layer of sweat and engine grime streaked across it.
I sighed.
“It’s like that, huh?” Frank asked.
I opened my mouth to tell him exactly how it was—damn hot for spring and damn mystifying when it came to this ornery tractor—but the clock drew my attention before I could let loose. It was like a polar attraction between it and me. All day long, I couldn’t care less the hour or minute. But come quittin’ time, when the hour hand moved past that five, it was like an ocean siren callin’ my name. Especially on days I ended up in here with Goose.
Why couldn’t the old man just buy a new tractor already?
“Beer?” I asked, giving up on my rant in favor of a cold beverage from the small fridge I’d recycled from my old college dorm room a few years back. I didn’t wait for Frank’s answer before I tossed him one and grabbed one for myself.
He grunted, cracked it, knocked back a swig. I loved Frank’s versatile vocabulary. In answer, I mimicked him, tossing in a grunt of my own. We were both silent a moment as we contemplated the hunk of metal before us and how it all related to the meaning of life.
“Goose’s getting more ’n more stubborn,” he said at last.
“She’s a beast,” I agreed.
“I should talk to Dean. Suggest a replacement, I guess.”
More swigs. More silence. I couldn’t disagree with that. Nor could I agree outright. This tractor had been a fixture of Heritage Plantation as long as I had. If we chucked it, well, there were some days I was afraid it and me were tied. A package deal. Not that they’d chuck me but—
“There you are,” said a smooth female voice. Hers was familiar and also a fixture here for as long as this old tractor.
“Summer,” I greeted.
The bright-eyed brunette, who’d been more a sister to me than anything, smiled a hello and planted a cheery kiss on Frank’s w
eathered cheek. “Uncle Frank. Thought you’d gone for the day. You boys getting the weekend started early?” she asked, nodding toward our liquid ode to five pm.
“Seeing the work week off right,” I said, raising my can in salute.
Summer laughed, a bright and airy sound that had become even more enjoyable to hear in the past few months. Watching her and Ford together was always a toss-up for me. One minute I was thrilled for the girl who I knew deserved every happiness under the sun. The next, they’d be so sickly sweet, they made me wanna hurl. Nobody wanted to watch their sister make out.
Summer caught my menacing glare and the direction it was aimed in. “Goose giving you problems again?” she asked.
I scowled and Summer laughed—and quickly covered it with a cough when I glowered at her. “This pile of bones is useless,” I said.
Frank leaned toward Summer. “Which, in Casey-speak, means the problem eludes him.”
I resisted the urge to scowl again, opting instead to carry my ass to the mini-fridge and crack a new beer.
“Two bucks says it’s the master cylinder.” Summer’s tone was smug. And challenging. She knew how to get me.
I looked at her with narrowing eyes. “Two bucks is all, huh? You must not be very confident.”
Summer’s smile widened. She knew she’d won, wasn’t about the money. “Fine, twenty,” she said.
“Twenty and dinner,” I challenged.
“Twenty and a six-pack.”
I sipped my beer as we faced off. Summer’s grin never wavered. “Deal,” I finally said.
We spit and shook. Frank rolled his eyes.
“I’m going to dinner with Ford. Don’t cheat while I’m gone,” Summer warned.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. If you’re worried, Ford can take me to dinner and you can stay and diagnose Goose.”
“Nice try, but you would never fit into my dress.” She kissed Frank’s cheek again as he laughed. “I’ll see you later.” Her hair swung as she left and I sighed, not even sure what to call the unsettled feeling it gave me to see Summer so happy when I was …whatever I was.
A Bet Worth Making (Grayson County #2) Page 2