As the gnarled tree came into view, Brent could see why they used it as a marker. It was grey and twisted as if cursed with some ancient magic, and nothing was around it. There was no street sign marker, so if it had a name, it was keeping it secret.
Down this street were a few houses, painted in tans and beiges. They almost blended into the background. Up ahead, the small converted shop appeared among the neighborhood houses. He couldn’t imagine the shop could hold more than one car at a time, but it probably didn’t need to. He hadn't heard or seen a car driving in this town.
S A M‘ S was stenciled across the front door. As he pushed open the door, a bell jingled above his head announcing his arrival.
No one manned the cluttered counter, so he stepped into the large opening that led to the shop to the left. An old green Ford truck filled the space, and at the front of the truck, he spied two denim legs.
“Hello?” he asked. “I’m looking for Sam.”
The legs rolled out from under the car until the full person was exposed. His heart stalled in his chest. Sam was not the greasy male mechanic he expected, but a petite brunette, though she was sporting a grease smear across her cheek. Her dark blue jumpsuit was large and hung on her body, hiding the curves he imagined lay underneath.
“I’m Sam. What can I do for you?” She wiped her hand on a red towel she pulled from her pocket as she met his gaze. Her blue eyes reminded him of the sky when no clouds filled it.
“But … you’re a woman.” The shocked words spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them.
Her eyebrow inched up her forehead as her arms crossed and leaned back. “Yeah, I’m a woman. You got a problem with that?”
He did, on so many levels. A woman could not possibly fix his Porsche, but he’d already ruffled her feathers. If nothing else, perhaps she would order whatever part he needed, and recommend a real mechanic.
Brent swallowed his pride and issued a lackluster apology. “No, I’m sorry. It’s … I was expecting a man.” Her sky-blue eyes continued to glare at him, waiting for a better explanation. “My car broke down outside of town, and I was hoping you could fix it or order a part or something.”
Her gaze traveled the length of his body as if sizing him up. “What kind of car?”
“Porsche 911.”
A snort escaped her mouth. “Figures.”
Irritation flared within him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Figures you would drive such an uppity car. I could tell by the way you’re dressed.”
He bit his tongue to keep the reply he wanted to spew back at her in check. A few hasty generalizations on her outfit and the fact that she lived in this small town flooded his mind, but he needed her help. With great effort, he swallowed the vinegar and opted to pour out honey instead.
“You got me. I live in Houston, but I was hoping to get away from the noise and relax. Can you help me?” He flashed his best puppy dog eyes at her, hoping they would work as well on her as they had on other women.
“Fine. I’ll look at your snobby car. Follow me.”
With a quick spin, she led the way through a back door where a faded blue Chevy truck waited.
Chapter 2
Sam rolled her eyes as she climbed in the truck. The last thing she needed was a rich snob looking down on her, but she could use the money. She hadn’t realized how hard it would be to open up her own shop. She should have rented a place closer to downtown, but she liked being away from the main buzz, and the building had been cheaper here. It was the cost of the renovation and all the equipment that had sucked her savings dry.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he climbed into the seat beside her. His head swiveled left and right eliciting a smirk from Sam. “There’s no seatbelt, but I’ll drive safe, don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t worried,” he sputtered, his forehead wrinkling as his brows knitted together. “Go back out the Farm Road. I’m about two miles outside town.”
She nodded, and after putting the truck in gear, she pulled out onto the street. “What did you say you do again?”
“I didn’t, but I’m an actor. Maybe you’ve heard of me. Brent McKasson?” The pride was unmistakable in his voice, and his chest puffed out as he spoke.
“Nope, but I don’t watch much TV. I’ve got actual work to do.”
“I’m a movie actor,” he mumbled under his breath, clearly stunned she did not recognize him.
“Not here you’re not. You’re a big city name passing through. At least I assume you’re not staying.” She shot him a glance out of the corner of her eye to gauge his reaction.
“Only until my car is fixed.”
Relief flooded her. “Well, in Soda Spurs, time moves a little slower. People are less hung up on money and fame, so don’t be too disappointed if no one knows who you are. Besides, don’t actors usually live in Los Angeles?”
“I guess some do. I prefer having a little more privacy, and I can fly wherever I need to be for filming. There.”
She followed the direction his finger was pointing and smirked as the red Porsche 911 came into view. It would be red. Sam braked the truck beside the sporty car and turned off the ignition. “Did the engine smoke? Make any sounds?” she asked as she climbed down.
“Um, the check engine light came on and then smoke billowed out.”
“What color? Can I have the keys?”
He handed them over, and she unlocked the car and popped the hood.
“What color what?” he asked, confused.
“What color smoke?” She backed out the driver’s side and moseyed to the back of the car where the engine was located. “Was it white? Blue? Grey?”
“Does that matter? It was smoke.”
“Yes, it matters.” Irritation filled her veins as the hood flew up and she peered inside. She pushed the yellow tube to the side and peeked behind the engine. No oil appeared to be leaking, but sometimes a small leak was harder to see. After a few more pokes and prods, she slammed the hood down. “Well, it could be your AOS. That would be your best bet. The part isn’t expensive, but it’s a pain to get to, and I don't carry it. If that’s not the problem though, then you probably blew your engine, and that’s about a twelve-thousand-dollar fix.”
His face paled as he blinked at her. “Twelve thousand dollars?”
“Yep, and I don’t do them here,” — she crossed her arms and stared at him — “so you’d have to get your car into a Porsche shop to have the repair done. However, if it’s your AOS, I can replace it for you, but I won’t know for sure until we get the car back to my shop.”
“How do we do that? You have a tow truck around here?”
She held up a finger in a “give me a minute gesture” and walked to the back of her truck. A long silver chain with a hook lay coiled in the bed. “We do it the old-fashioned way.” Sam held up the hook and flashed a crooked grin as she stepped back toward the car.
“What? No way. You can’t put that on Stella. The metal will scratch her paint.” He stepped in front of Sam, halting her approach.
“You named your car Stella?” For some reason, she found the fact endearing. It made him a smidge more likeable, but only a smidge. Everything else about him grated on her nerves.
He shrugged but didn’t budge.
Sam sighed and softened her tone as she returned his gaze. “Do you have a better idea? I don’t have a tow service. Soda Spurs doesn’t have a tow service. You can’t drive her and even if you could, another two miles would blow the engine for sure.”
Brent's eyes flicked from her to the car and back as he debated. Actual pain registered on his face when he answered, which made her smile. “Okay, fine, but please try not to scratch her.”
“I’ll do my best.” Sam shook her head as she bent down to attach the hook underneath the car. Rich people were so hung up on their possessions they often missed the people around them. Though there were parts of the city she missed, that wasn’t one of them.
As the hook cli
cked against the metal, Sam pushed the thoughts of the past from her mind. She dusted off her hands and faced Brent. “That should do it. I’ll drive the truck back and you should steer the car, in case she slides. Hit the brakes only if necessary or you'll need a new bumper too.”
“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” he grumbled under his breath as he got in the car.
Sam rolled her eyes as she climbed back in the truck. So much for him being likeable. She didn’t miss people like Brent “what’s his name” behind her, but she missed the opportunity sometimes. Her shop back in Dallas had been thriving. No, I won’t travel down that road again. That door was closed. She needed to focus on making a living here.
The drive was slow, and she waved at Fanny, still sitting on her porch, as they passed. Sam wondered if Fanny did anything besides knit all day. At her age, there wasn’t much else she could do, yet somehow, she knew everything happening, even on the outskirts of town.
When she arrived back at the garage, Sam parked on the street outside and shut off the engine. It would be too hard to tow the car inside and get it situated, so they would need to push the vehicle the rest of the way.
“You’re leaving her here?” The incredulity in his voice carried with his volume as he stepped out of the car.
“No, I’m not leaving her here,” — It took all her effort not to bite the man’s head off — “but I didn’t want to risk damaging her by trying to back in, so we will push her inside.”
“I’m sorry, but we will do what?” He blinked at her as if she had spoken in a foreign language. Although looking at his dress, she might have. He had probably never done manual labor in his life.
“Push her.” Sam stated the words slowly and with a mocking tone, stretching them to four syllables instead of the normal two.
His lips mashed together, forming a tight line, and she could almost see steam rising from his head. “I don’t push cars.”
An unattractive snort escaped her lips. “Well, you do today if you want me to look at her. I can’t very well work on her in the street. You take the driver side and I’ll take the passenger side. Put her in neutral and we’ll push. It’s not that hard.”
With a final dirty glance her direction, he climbed back in the car and placed her in neutral. Then he stepped out, leaving his right shoulder under the frame. Sam opened the passenger door and braced herself for the coming weight.
It took them a bit to get the car moving, but once it did, they had it in place a few minutes later.
“Okay.” Sam shut the passenger door and wiped a bead of sweat from her head. “I’ll look at her and tell you what I think. If it’s the AOS, I’ll place an order and we should have it Monday. After I get it installed, we’ll see if that’s the whole issue or if it will need more attention.”
“Monday?” Brent asked. “It’s Friday. Where am I supposed to stay for a few days?”
Sam shrugged. Why did he think this quandary was her problem? “There’s a bed-and-breakfast in town, but it might not have any rooms. Cowboy Shootout is this weekend.”
“What?”
“Cowboy Shootout. A group comes through and re-enacts cowboy shootouts throughout downtown. There’s a huge festival that goes along with it too including bobbing for apples—since that is our trademark here—hayrides, pie eating contest, you name it.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
Sam did not miss the sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Let me guess. You need a lift.”
Brent shrugged his shoulders and offered an apologetic look.
“Fine, come on.”
He grabbed his travel bag out of the car before joining Sam in the truck again.
As she drove through downtown, he faced the window, taking in the buildings. “They’re all so small.” The tone in his voice held a mixture of derision and disbelief.
“Yep, welcome to small town USA, where neighbors know each other’s names and people at the grocery store remember what you buy because there’s only two stores in town.”
He mumbled something under his breath that sounded like “I remember,” but it was so quiet that Sam wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.
As Soda Spurs Inn came into view, Sam released her breath, thankful Brent would no longer be her problem, but on top of the sign out front was a smaller one that read ‘All Filled Up.’
“Great, what do I do now?” Brent asked, running a hand through his hair.
“Well, the other option isn’t as nice, but Fanny has let a passerby stay with her occasionally. She’s picky about who she lets stay, so you better put away your city boy attitude and see if you can find some small-town goodness.”
“I think I can handle that.” Brent shot her a pointed look. “I was born in a small town. What’s your beef with the city, anyway?”
Sam shrugged, not wanting to divulge that shameful part of her past. “Nothing, I just knew too many people interested in the latest model rather than the reliable one.”
He looked at her, his head tilted as if he wanted to ask another question but decided against it.
A few minutes later, they arrived back at Fanny’s. She was in her usual position on the porch, rocking back and forth. Brent’s posture stiffened beside her.
“Are you nervous? Talking to a little old lady?” Sam couldn’t help but laugh.
“If she says no, I have no place to stay, so yeah, the stakes are a little high, and I wish I had a hat.”
Sam furrowed her brow, not understanding what a hat would change, but not caring enough to ask a clarifying question. “Come on, it will be fine.” After shutting the door behind her, she sauntered up to the porch. “Hey, Fanny.”
“Hey yourself, Sam. I see you met our friend.” Fanny glanced at Brent without missing a stitch in her knitting.
“Sure did. He will be here a few days while we wait for a part and Soda Spurs Inn is full due to the festival.” Sam shoved her hands in her pockets. “Any chance you have a free room?”
Fanny turned her eyes on Sam and paused her needles. Then she glanced at Brent. Sam followed Fanny’s eyes to Brent who stood with a small, hopeful smile on his face. “Sorry, I’m filled up too.” Brent’s expression faltered, but Fanny continued. “Don’t you have an extra room at your place, Sam?”
Sam’s head whipped back to Fanny and she stuttered over her words. “Fanny, that wouldn’t be proper.” A quick glance at Brent revealed the same shock on his face. There was no way she wanted the chauvinistic city-boy in her extra room and invading her space.
“I see it as being neighborly. It's only for a few days.” Fanny raised an eyebrow at Sam. “He has nowhere else, right?”
Sam opened her mouth to speak but shut it and sighed instead. Fanny was right. Brent had nowhere to stay if she didn’t open her house, and though her mother was gone, she would have had Sam’s hide if she turned her back on someone who needed help.
She turned to Brent and forced the words past gritted teeth. “Fine, you can stay with me, but only for a few days.”
“No worries,” he said, holding up his hands. “I don’t plan to be here any longer than necessary.”
“Come on. Thanks, Fanny, we’ll see you around.”
“I’m sure you will.” As the old woman smiled and resumed her knitting, Sam wondered about the gleam in her eyes.
Chapter 3
Sam pulled the truck up to a small rambler with peeling beige paint and a lawn in need of serious maintenance. Brent glanced at her out of the corner of his eye as he exited the vehicle. For as knowledgeable as she appeared about cars, she must not be much of a home maintenance expert. Neither was he, but that’s why he had a penthouse apartment. No yard to worry about.
He followed her up two creaking porch steps that sagged under his weight. How had she never fixed these? They felt as if they’d succumb any day.
She shoved the key in the lock and turned his direction, indecision flooding her eyes. He knew she didn’t want him here, but he didn’t want to be here ei
ther. He wanted to be in the peaceful cabin ignoring the press and contemplating his future.
He had made the majority of his money playing the Night Ranger, but it was getting old, and he wanted something that showed off his talent more. The only problem was he didn’t know what that was.
The front door swung open, and Brent followed Sam into the simple living room. Two chairs and a couch, mismatched as if they came from Goodwill or the nearest garage sale, sat in the middle of the room. A scratched coffee table was situated in the center of them, cluttered with paper, but it was the three full bookshelves that garnered most of his attention.
He loved reading, but he rarely met people who read more than their scripts these days, and even fewer owned a book. Those who did read didn’t use paperback books anymore; they downloaded them to their Kindle or other device, but Sam evidently had a penchant for the real thing. He found his opinion of her shifting. Anyone who still enjoyed a paperback had to have some redeeming qualities. Perhaps she was worth getting to know better. He wanted to peruse her shelves to see what she liked to read, but she spoke, diverting his attention first.
“The kitchen and dining room are here.” She pointed to the right. “Use what you want, but the cupboards are bare. The market is on Willow street, and you can walk there. There’s also a few restaurants—Marnie’s on Madison, Ernesto’s, and a few others, but they’re farther in town.”
She turned left down a narrow hallway and Brent followed, his head spinning from the unfamiliar names she was spouting. The hallway walls were plain, white, and barren of pictures and personality. How long had she lived here? At the end of the hallway it split, and she headed left again, opening a door to a bedroom.
“This is the guest room. You can stay here. It’s not much though.”
Solid blue colors decorated the simple room. A full-size bed, dresser, and desk were the only furniture pieces, but it was better than no room.
“The bathroom is down the hall. I have my own, so we don’t have to share. There's a towel on the rack you can use and extras in the hall closet across from it. My room is there,” — she pointed to the closed door at the other end of the hall — “and it’s off limits.”
A Brush with a Billionaire Page 2
