Page 6 of How to Kiss a Mountain Man

“Oh!” Her voice breaks through my thoughts. “I forgot to mention—the parking brake on my truck needs an extra hard pull to engage properly. Sorry, I should have told you yesterday.”

“Already noticed. I’ve got it handled.”

“Her name is Betty, by the way,” she adds with pride.

The corner of my mouth lifts. It’s the perfect name for her truck. “I’ll take good care of Betty while I have her.”

“You better,” she says, her words carrying a hint of flirtatiousness. Or maybe I’m imagining it.

I find myself wondering what she’s like outside of work. If she brings that same confidence to everything she does. If she’d look at me differently if we met somewhere other than her garage.

Those thoughts lead nowhere good. She’s just doing her job, being professional with a customer. The fact that she’s kind while doing it doesn’t mean anything more.

“Just a second,” she calls to someone in the background. Then, to me: “Sorry, I need to handle something here.”

“Of course. Have a good rest of your day,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

“You too, Griffin.”

After we hang up, I stay in my kitchen, still caught in the warmth of our conversation. I try to tell myself it was just business, just a mechanic updating her customer. But there was something else there—in her laugh, in the way she shared that story about handling difficult customers, in the way she saidyou better.

And now I can’t stop wondering what else there is to learn about Jordana Blake.

The broken suncatcher on my counter catches my eye. I tried fixing it with fishing line, but the repair looks worse than when the chain was broken. I can’t give it back to her like that. I’m going to need a better solution, one that shows I can be trusted with what belongs to her.

A few days later, I make the drive to Fairhope again in Jordana’s truck. My first stop is a jewelry shop on Main Street. The elderly jeweler takes one look at the broken suncatcher and assures me it’s an easy fix.

As I wait, I study the displays of rings and necklaces without much interest until a pale blue crystal pendant draws my attention. The shimmering stone hangs from a silver chain, reminding me of Jordana’s suncatcher in how it captures light. An image forms in my mind: the pendant resting against her collarbone, hidden beneath her coveralls while she works.

When the jeweler returns with the repaired suncatcher, I glance again at the necklace. But it’s a ridiculous thought, buying jewelry for a woman I hardly know. I pay for the repair and get out of there.

Next, I head to the grocery store for my usual supply run. I’m relieved to see a fairly empty parking lot when I pull in. Inside, fluorescent lights hum overhead as I grab a basket and begin my methodical loop through the aisles. Rice, beans, ground beef, eggs, bread. Everything basic and practical, chosen more for sustenance rather than enjoyment. The basket grows heavy in my hand as I add canned vegetables, coffee, and dry goods.

I’m nearly done when I reach the freezer section. Someone stands in front of the ice cream, door propped open as they contemplate their selection. I consider skipping my one indulgence and heading straight to the checkout. But I know I’ll regret it later if I don’t get my usual pint, so I approach the freezer, reaching past the lingering shopper.

“Griffin?”

My hand stops mid-reach. I know that voice.

Jordana stands there in jeans and a soft gray t-shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back like it was at her shop. My whole body goes still at the sight of her. Her curves had been alluring enough in her coveralls, but in her streetclothes, they’re enough to nearly render me speechless. Jesus, she’s beautiful.

“Hi.” The word comes out of my mouth awkward, stilted.

She looks equally startled to see me, color rising in her cheeks. “Hi.”

I point to the pint of ice cream I was aiming for. “Just needed to grab one of those.”

“Oh.” She reaches for the carton I’m pointing to, studying the label as she holds it. “I’ve never tried this flavor before. Is it good?” She immediately laughs at herself. “Of course it’s good, or you wouldn’t be buying it.”

When she hands me the ice cream, her fingers brush against mine. The warmth of her skin against the frozen carton jolts through me like a current.

She pulls her hand back, flustered. “God, I’m letting all the cold air out.” She grabs a pint for herself and shuts the freezer door. As she picks up her shopping basket, her eyes meet mine again, and I realize I’m staring at her. Fuck. I need to get my act together.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Good.” I focus on keeping my voice steady. “You?”

“Good.” Her smile reaches her eyes. “Just finishing up my shopping.”

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