Page 3 of How to Kiss a Mountain Man

JORDANA

“Ican’t believe you just gave him your truck.”

I’m still looking out the office window at the street that Griffin just drove away on when Esther’s voice breaks through my thoughts. I turn around and see her leaning against the doorframe between the office and garage, wiping grease from her hands with deliberate care.

“You know that guy is dangerous, right?” she says, giving me a knowing look.

“You mean the rumors going around about him?” I say. “Come on. Half of what people say about anyone isn’t true.”

“This isn’t just gossip. Everyone knows?—”

“Everyone knows what they’ve heard from someone who heard it from someone else.” I move past her into the garage, drawn to Griffin’s truck. The engine’s damage tells its own story—one of someone trying to fix things alone until he had no choice but to ask for help. “Besides, it’s not like he’s going to steal my truck. He’ll be back for his own the second it’s ready.”

“That’s not the point and you know it.”

Maybe not, but I’m not about to admit to Esther that I felt an unexpected pull toward Griffin when he walked into my shop, a feeling that was more than sympathy for his situation. Griffin intrigues me. And my gut is telling me that he deserves to be given a fair chance, regardless of what anyone says about him.

The sound of male footsteps enters the shop, and Esther’s voice goes sugary-sweet. “Hey, Trey.”

I don’t need to turn around to picture the bright, practiced smile that’s undoubtedly spread across Trey Whitcomb’s face. I focus on Griffin’s engine instead, studying the wear patterns that speak of long mountain drives.

“Morning, ladies. I brought sustenance.” Trey’s voice carries that artificial warmth that always reminds me of a car salesman. “Fresh from the bakery.”

“You’re so sweet,” Esther gushes.

I straighten up, plastering on my professional smile. “Thanks, Trey. That’s thoughtful.” What I don’t say is that his thoughtfulness always feels calculated, like every gesture is designed to earn points rather than actually make someone happy.

“Anything for my favorite lady mechanics.” His eyes drop to my chest for a fraction of a second—just like they did throughout our entire disaster of a dinner date last month. “Hey, Jordana…I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch today? What do you say?”

“Thanks, but I’m backed up with work.” I gesture to Griffin’s truck. “Major engine rebuild.”

“Rain check, then?”

“I don’t think so, Trey. Sorry.” I turn back to the engine, making it clear the conversation is over.

Trey laughs, as if I’ve said something funny, and then says, “All right. I’ll catch you girls later.”

After Trey leaves, Esther practically deflates against the workbench. “What is wrong with you, Jordana? That man is a walking dream.”

I resist an eye-roll. “Yeah, a dream who spent our entire date talking about his investment portfolio and staring at my breasts.”

“So he’s not perfect. But he’s gorgeous, successful, and actually interested in something besides cars and engines.” Esther sighs dramatically. “I wish he’d look atmybreasts.”

“Esther.” I give my employee-slash-friend a serious look. “You deserve someone who sees you—all of you. Not just your body, not just what you can do for them. Someone who listens when you talk, who doesn’t treat kindness like it’s currency to be spent.”

“You’re too picky.”

Maybe. But I’d rather be picky than settle for someone like Trey, who treats women like trophies to be won. Before I can stop myself, my mind drifts to Griffin, thinking of the way he’d looked at me with appreciation but also pulled his gaze away, like he was scolding himself for looking. And how he’d apologized for questioning my expertise, actually meaning it. And how freakinghothe was.

I push those thoughts aside. Attractive or not, Griffin is a customer. Nothing more.

“Hand me that socket set,” I tell Esther. “This engine isn’t going to rebuild itself.”

I spend the next hour starting the disassembly process while Esther handles a string of oil changes for other customers. The work I’m doing is methodical, almost meditative, but for once it doesn’t settle my mind. I keep seeing Griffin’s storm-gray eyes, how they’d lingered on me before darting away.

When I need the truck’s owner’s manual to check some specs, I pull open the driver’s door and slide into the seat. The interior of the cab holds traces of Griffin’s woodsy, masculine scent, and warmth stirs in my chest.

I lean over and open the glove box. An empty prescription bottle falls out and hits the floor mat. I reach down to grab it, and my fingers tighten around the plastic when I see the label has been deliberately scratched off, leaving only white fragments behind. My stomach clenches at how methodical the removal looks.

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