Chapter 1 — Breakdown on the Lonely Road
Claire
Claire Montgomery tightened her grip on the steering wheel, her manicured nails tapping a staccato rhythm against the leather. The vintage car, her pride and joy, sputtered ominously, its engine groaning like a wounded animal before giving one final, gut-wrenching cough. The dashboard lights flickered and died, leaving her staring at the empty road ahead in stunned silence.
“No. Not today,” she muttered through gritted teeth, her voice edged with disbelief and mounting panic. She eased the car onto the gravel shoulder, the tires crunching against loose stones as the vehicle shuddered to a reluctant stop.
She leaned back against the headrest and exhaled sharply, the taut line of her jaw refusing to relax. The faint scent of her father’s cologne lingered in the car’s interior, clinging stubbornly to the leather seats. Usually, it was comforting—a steadfast relic of his presence. Today, it felt like a taunt. He’d always boasted about this car’s reliability, calling it a “masterpiece of engineering.” He would’ve had a sly remark ready about her driving or her tendency to push machines beyond their limits.
Her hazel eyes darted to the glove compartment, where she’d recently noticed a faint creaking sound whenever she opened it. The thought niggled at her now. Had she missed something? Couldn’t she have averted this breakdown if she’d paid closer attention? Shaking her head, she dismissed the thought. What mattered was fixing this disaster—not indulging in what-ifs.
She glanced at her phone resting on the passenger seat. No signal. Of course.
“Perfect. Just perfect,” she muttered, sliding the device into her leather handbag with a sharp, irritated motion.
This was supposed to be a flawless day. She was heading toward a career-defining pitch to Harper Westfield, the kind of opportunity that could cement her reputation as one of the top interior designers in the industry. Harper wouldn’t care about delays or rural misadventures. Harper wanted results, and Claire had no room for failure.
Claire inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself. The narrow tree-lined road stretched infinitely in both directions, framed by rolling hills and dense forests. The late afternoon sun filtered through the canopy, casting dappled light on the gravel, but the picturesque scene did nothing to calm her nerves.
Sliding out of the car, she winced as her patent leather heels wobbled on the uneven ground. The sharp stones bit into her thin soles, and she had to steady herself by gripping the doorframe. Every detail of this scene—the gravel shoulder, the towering trees, and her impractical shoes—stood in stark contrast to her meticulously curated, urban world.
She adjusted her tailored blazer, its crisp lines an armor of professionalism, and shielded her eyes with one hand, scanning the empty horizon.
A faint rumble broke the oppressive silence, and she turned toward the sound. Cresting the hill was a tractor, its engine grumbling steadily. The driver was a weathered man in overalls and a straw hat, waving casually as he approached. The scene felt like stepping into a pastoral postcard, utterly surreal in its simplicity.
Claire hesitated, her city instincts prickling at the thought of flagging down a stranger. But practicality won out. She raised her arms and forced a polite, if brittle, smile.
The tractor slowed to a stop a few feet away, its driver tipping his hat in greeting. “Car trouble?” he asked, his voice a slow, friendly drawl.
“You could say that,” Claire replied, her tone clipped but courteous. “The engine just... stopped. Completely. And I don’t exactly know where I am.”
The man chuckled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re just outside Willow Creek. Quiet little town, real friendly folk. You’re in luck—Jack Lawson’s got a garage not far from here. Best mechanic around. If anyone can fix that beauty of yours, it’s Jack.”
Willow Creek. The name conjured images of gingham curtains, hand-painted signs, and everything else Claire actively avoided. She glanced back at her car, then down at her heels. “Is it close enough to walk?”
The man’s grin widened as he noticed her footwear. “Not unless you’ve got steel toes hidden in those shoes. But I can give you a lift.”
Her hesitation lingered. He introduced himself as Earl, his easy demeanor at odds with her polished reserve. A ride on a tractor with a stranger wasn’t how she’d envisioned salvaging her carefully planned day. But the practicality of the situation left her no real choice.
“Thank you,” she said finally, her voice softening.
Climbing onto the tractor proved to be an awkward affair. She perched stiffly on the edge of the seat, knees drawn close to her chest as they jostled over the uneven road. Earl filled the silence with stories about Willow Creek—its festivals, its famous pie, and Jack Lawson’s reputation as a miracle worker with engines.
The tractor ride seemed interminable. The sun bore down relentlessly, the countryside smelled faintly of hay and wildflowers, and the chatter tested Claire’s patience. Yet, despite herself, she couldn’t help but register Earl’s genuine warmth.
When they finally arrived, Claire’s nerves were frayed. The garage loomed before her—a weathered brick building with tall, arched windows and a faded sign that read, “Lawson’s Garage.”
Earl hopped down with surprising agility and offered her a hand. “Here you are. Good luck with Jack. He ain’t much for small talk, but he knows his way around a car.”
“Thank you,” Claire said, smoothing her blazer and squaring her shoulders before stepping through the garage door.
Inside, the scent of motor oil and aged wood enveloped her. Dust motes swirled in the sunlight streaming through the high windows, and the faint hum of an old radio played in the background. Tools were arranged with meticulous care on the walls, and vintage car parts gleamed on well-worn shelves.
Her heels clicked against the concrete floor as she approached the figure at the center of it all. Jack Lawson had his back to her, his broad shoulders hunched over a vintage car. His grease-stained flannel shirt clung to his frame, and his dark hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck.
“Excuse me,” Claire called, her tone firm but polite.
Jack turned slowly, wiping his hands on a rag. His piercing blue eyes met hers, calm and assessing, and Claire found herself straightening under their intensity.
“You must be the one Earl mentioned,” he said simply, his voice low and even.
“Yes,” she replied, working to keep her tone steady. “My car broke down a few miles back. Earl said you might be able to help.”
Jack’s gaze drifted over her before landing back on her face. His expression remained inscrutable, though a faint flicker of amusement danced at the edge of his mouth. “Depends on what’s wrong with it.”
Claire’s jaw tightened. “It’s stranded on the side of the road. I can’t exactly bring it here.”
“Guess I’ll have to tow it, then,” Jack said, turning back to the car he’d been working on.
His unhurried demeanor grated on her nerves. “How long will it take to fix?”
Jack shrugged, his movements deliberate. “Depends on the parts.”
Annoyance rose in her throat, but she swallowed it. She needed his help. “Fine. Where’s your tow truck?”
He gestured toward a rusted truck parked outside. “I’ll grab it. Wait here.”
As he walked past her, the scent of motor oil and cedarwood lingered faintly in the air. Claire let out a slow breath, glancing around the garage. The care evident in the organization of tools and parts hinted at a precision that contrasted sharply with Jack’s aloofness.
When he returned, they climbed into the tow truck in silence. The vehicle groaned to life, its rumble filling the heavy quiet.
“So,” Jack said finally, breaking the stillness. “What brings someone like you out here?”
Claire arched a brow. “Someone like me?”
Jack gave her a sidelong glance, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t exactly blend in.”
She bristled but forced herself to stay composed. “I was on my way to an important meeting,” she said coolly.
“Looks like it’s gonna have to wait,” Jack replied, his tone maddeningly neutral.
When they reached the car, Jack moved with practiced efficiency, inspecting it in silence. Claire hovered nearby, her arms crossed as she watched him work.
“It’s fixable,” he said finally, straightening. “But I’ll need to order some parts. Could take a few days.”
“A few days?” she echoed, her stomach sinking.
Jack nodded. “That’s the best I can do.”
Claire pressed her lips into a thin line, her mind racing with contingency plans. Finally, she exhaled sharply. “Fine. But let’s get one thing straight—I don’t plan on staying here any longer than necessary.”
Jack’s expression remained unreadable, but his piercing gaze lingered for a beat too long. “Suit yourself,” he said quietly.
As he hooked up her car to the tow truck, Claire turned her attention back to the horizon. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t belong here. And yet, for now, it seemed she had no choice.
