Page 4 of How to Kiss a Mountain Man

I should put it back. It’s none of my business what medications my customers take. But as I reach to return the bottle, my eye catches on something else in the glove box: a plastic bag holding several identical cell phones.

As in, the kind you buy with cash, use, and toss.

My chest tightens as I stare at the phones. There could be an innocent explanation. But I can’t immediately think of one, and combined with the unlabeled pills…it doesn’t sit entirely right.

Every customer deserves privacy. But what I just discovered makes those rumors about Griffin start echoing in my head.

I tuck the empty pill bottle back into place and remove the owner’s manual, my movements careful. Professional. Like I’mhandling evidence—a thought that makes my chest grow tighter still.

Returning to the engine, I throw myself into the work. Engines make sense. I can handle engines. But I can’t stop thinking about those phones, that prescription bottle.

Could there be some truth to what people have said about him?

By closing time, Esther’s gone home and I’ve made decent progress on the initial tear-down. But I can’t settle the unease in my stomach. I tell myself I’m just being professional when I pull out my phone and dial Griffin’s number. That he needs an update on his truck. But part of me hopes talking to him will ease this knot of doubt I’m feeling, even if I can’t ask about what I found.

He answers on the second ring, his voice deep and clear. “Hello?”

“Griffin? It’s Jordana Blake.” I lean against my workbench, suddenly aware of the grease under my nails, the way my coveralls stick to my skin after a long day’s work. “I wanted to update you on the rebuild.”

“I appreciate that.” Something in his tone sends warmth spreading through me, despite my earlier discoveries. “How’s it looking?”

“The tear-down’s underway, but it’ll be at least two weeks before she’s road-ready.” I run my finger along a seam on my coveralls. “How’s my truck treating you?”

“It’s solid. Handled the mountain just fine.”

“That’s good. Hopefully it’s fine for whatever kind of commute you have, too.”

He pauses, and I hear rustling in the background. “Actually, I mainly work from home. I’m a crisis counselor for veterans. Most of it’s over the phone, but sometimes they need face-to-face support. Having reliable transportation makes a real difference.”

The gentle passion in his voice catches me off guard. It doesn’t match the image of a dangerous man hiding away on a mountain. “That sounds challenging but meaningful.”

“Exactly. It’s both.” His voice warms further, losing its guarded edge.

“How long were you in the military before becoming a counselor?” I ask.

“Twelve years. Army.” There’s a weight to the simple words that he speaks.

“Thank you for your service,” I say. I mean it, but the words feel inadequate. “My dad served too—Army as well, years ago.”

“Yeah?” The lift in Griffin’s voice encourages me to continue.

“After he got out, he opened this auto shop.” I run my palm along the smooth edge of my workbench, remembering. “I practically grew up here. Spent every afternoon watching him work, learning everything I could. Cars were his language.”

“Sounds like you admired him a lot.”

“I did.” I smile, picturing my younger self. “He used to drag over this little step stool so I could see into the engine bay. Started teaching me oil changes when I was still in elementary school.”

“And now you run the place.”

“Yeah. People around here were amazing when I took over. My dad was pretty beloved in Fairhope, and everyone was so supportive—” The words die in my throat as I realize what I’m saying. About how welcoming and supportive this town can be—to some people. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything I’m not saying about how differently they’ve treated Griffin.

“Small towns have long memories,” Griffin says quietly.

I clear my throat. “Anyway, I should let you go. I just wanted to keep you updated on the timeline.”

“Thanks for that.” He pauses. “And for trusting me with your truck.”

That last part hits something tender in my chest. Trust. What do I really know about the man I’ve lent my truck to?

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