"So here's the situation." Jake leans against the truck, surveying my crumpled rental. "You've got two options."
I cross my arms, bracing for bad news.
"Option one: we tow this to the shop in town. Hank's a decent mechanic, but he's the only mechanic within forty miles, which means he charges accordingly." Jake's steel-gray eyes meet mine. "Premium prices for parts, labor, and the privilege of being stranded in his waiting room for a week."
"And option two?"
"We handle it ourselves." He gestures toward the cabin's direction. "Oscar's handy with engines—spent two years restoring a '67 Mustang. Konnor has steady hands, comes with the surgeon territory. And I've done more field repairs than I can count."
I process this, waiting for the catch. There's always a catch.
"Free of charge," Jake says, and the words land in my chest like a splinter I immediately need to remove.
I bristle before I can stop myself. "I don't need charity."
Jake leans against his truck, arms crossed, watching me with an expression that suggests he's seen this particular brand of defensive pride before and remains thoroughly unimpressed.
"Wasn't asking if you needed." Jake picks a piece of bark off his flannel sleeve, unhurried. "Was asking what you wanted."
The distinction catches me off guard. People don't usually make that distinction—they assume they know what I need and bulldoze accordingly.
"I have a cabin," I argue. "I rented a place. I should just get there and figure this out on my own."
"And do what?" His gaze pins me in place. "Sit alone in an empty cabin with no car, no grocery store for fifteen miles, and no way to get to a hospital if something goes wrong?"
The word hospital hits differently when you're secretly pregnant. My hand twitches toward my stomach but I redirect the motion, brushing imaginary dirt from my leggings.
He doesn't know. He can't know.
"I'd manage," I say, but my voice has lost its edge.
"You'd be miserable." Jake says it without judgment, just fact. "Stay with us. Let us help with the car." He pauses. "You can argue about paying us back later."
I should say no. I should insist on my independence, my solitude, my carefully constructed plan to disappear.
Instead, I think about how for the first time in weeks, I don't feel completely alone.
"Fine," I hear myself say. "But I'm helping with the car. I'm not just going to stand around looking decorative."
Jake's mouth twitches. "Wouldn't dream of it."
He produces a pair of boots from the truck bed—massive, rubber, deeply unglamorous. "Put these on. Unless you want to destroy whatever designer sneakers those are."
I glance down. "They're Golden Goose."
"They're about to be Golden Garbage if you wear them in that mud."
I take the boots, noting they're three sizes too large, and try not to laugh at how ridiculous I look tucking designer leggings into rubber waders.
"Very fashion forward," Jake observes.
"I'm starting a trend. Swamp chic. It's going to be huge."
"Less talking, more walking." But there's warmth in his voice as he hands me a set of heavy chains. "Hold these while I get the truck positioned."
Jake walks me through the process with the patience of someone who's taught this a hundred times.
He crouches near the front axle, pointing to the tow hooks tucked beneath the bumper.
"These are your anchor points. We're going to run the chains through here, loop them back, and secure them to the truck's hitch." He glances up at me. "You're on chain duty. Feed it through when I tell you."
I kneel in the mud—goodbye, designer leggings—and thread the heavy chain through the first hook while Jake guides it from the other side.
Our fingers brush in the tight space beneath the car, his knuckles grazing mine as he takes the chain from my grip. Awareness sparks up my arm.
"Good. Now we need tension." He moves to the second hook, and I follow. "Too loose and the car swings. Too tight and we risk snapping the line or ripping the hooks clean off."
"So Goldilocks tension. Got it."
"Exactly." He almost smiles. "Hold this end steady while I adjust."
I brace the chain while he works the connector, and when he leans in to check the angle, our shoulders bump. He doesn't move away immediately. Neither do I.
I have to remind myself to breathe.
"Pull it taut," he instructs, and I do, wrapping the chain around my palms the way he showed me. "Now hold while I hook us to the truck."
He disappears behind me, and I hear the clank of metal against metal, the grunt of effort as he secures our end to the hitch.
My arms burn from holding the tension, but I don't complain. Kelly Goodwin once held a board meeting hostage for six hours. I can hold a chain.
"Alright, release." he commands.
I let go, and the chain snaps tight between the two vehicles with a satisfying twang.
Jake circles back, checking each connection point, tugging on links, crouching to inspect angles I wouldn't have thought to consider.
Finally, he straightens and wipes his hands on his jeans.
"You're a quick learner," Jake says, sounding almost surprised.
Pride swells in my chest. "I ran a Fortune 500 company."
The words slip out before I can stop them. I freeze. My entire body goes rigid with the realization of what I've just revealed—a breadcrumb that leads directly back to Kelly Goodwin, disgraced CEO, tabloid fodder.
Jake pauses, meeting my eyes. "Did you now."
"I mean—" I scramble for recovery, heart hammering. "I managed a team. A big team. Lots of logistics." I'm rambling. I never ramble. "The point is, I'm not useless."
"Never thought you were." Jake holds my gaze a beat too long. Then he reaches past me to tighten a bolt, his chest brushing my shoulder. "Hand me the wrench?"
I pass it over, and our fingers overlap on the handle.
Neither of us lets go immediately.
His skin is warm and rough against mine, calloused from years of fighting fires, saving lives. The contact shouldn't feel significant—we're standing in mud, working on a wrecked car.
And yet.
"What are you really doing here, Kelly Bird?" His jaw softens as he asks it, the hard lines of his face rearranging into something almost tender.
I think about Mason and his calculated cruelty. About my father choosing a stranger over his own daughter. About the baby growing inside me.
Jake reads every thought crossing my face. He doesn't push or fill the silence with platitudes. He just nods, like my silence told him enough.
"Come on." He releases the wrench. "Want to show you something before we head back."
He leads me through the trees, along a path I wouldn't have noticed alone. The forest closes around us, green and alive.
Then the trees open, and I stop breathing.
A river cuts through a clearing, water running clear over smooth stones that glint in the filtered sunlight.
The canopy dapples everything in gold and green, and the sound of moving water fills the silence with peace.
It's the most beautiful thing I've seen in months. Tears prick my eyes, and I don't fight them.
I breathe deeply, and the air tastes like moss and rain and the kind of clean I'd forgotten existed.
"Thank you, Jake," I whisper.
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