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Lucy follows me inside, her footsteps light on the worn linoleum. "Oh," she says softly, looking around. "It's lovely."
The kitchen is outdated—yellow countertops from the seventies, an ancient gas stove—but it's clean and spacious enough. Through a doorway, I can see a small living room with a stone fireplace.
"Furnace is in the basement," I tell her, moving through the kitchen. "Thermostat's here. Pilot light for the water heater sometimes goes out when it storms."
She follows me as I do a quick check of the major systems. The furnace rumbles to life when I adjust the thermostat, and the faucets in the kitchen and bathroom run clear after a moment of rusty water.
"Looks like everything's working," I say, heading back to the kitchen. "Mrs. Abernathy will probably stop by tomorrow with paperwork and a proper set of keys."
Lucy is standing in the middle of the living room, turning slowly to take it all in. There's something vulnerable about her in thismoment—a woman surrounded by empty rooms that aren't yet home.
"It's bigger than I expected," she says. "The listing said one bedroom, but there seem to be two upstairs."
"The smaller one was probably counted as an office." I check my watch. Nearly seven. "You need help bringing in your things?"
The offer surprises me as much as it seems to surprise her. I don't usually go out of my way for customers, especially not after hours.
"Oh, I just have this for now," she says, lifting her overnight bag. "Until my car's fixed."
Right. Her car. The reason we're here in the first place. How could I forget?
"I'll call you tomorrow once I've had a chance to look at it more closely," I say, moving toward the door. "Shop opens at eight."
She nods, following me to the back door. "I'll come by in the morning, if that's okay? I should probably get a rental car if mine's going to be out of commission for a few days."
"Nearest rental place is in Oakridge, twenty miles east," I tell her. "But Lou at the diner might know someone who could lend you something. Town's good about helping newcomers." Sometimes, anyway. When those newcomers aren't named Carter.
"Thanks for the tip." She hesitates, then adds, "And really, thank you for going above and beyond tonight. I know you didn't have to."
There's something in her eyes—a warmth, a directness—that makes me look away. I'm not used to being looked at like that, like I've done something special just by doing the bare minimum of human decency.
"No problem," I mutter, stepping outside. The evening air is cooling rapidly now, carrying the scent of pine and distant woodsmoke. "Lock up behind me. This town's safe, but still."
She nods, one hand on the door. "Goodnight, Riley."
I nod once in acknowledgment, then turn and head back to my truck. As I start the engine, I glance back at the cottage. Lucy stands in the doorway, illuminated from behind, watching me leave. She raises a hand in farewell, and after a moment's hesitation, I return the gesture.
Driving away, I tell myself I'm just doing my job. That's all this is. A broken-down car, a stranded customer. I've handled dozens of similar situations without giving them a second thought.
But as I turn back onto Main Street, I find myself wondering what Lucy Mitchell will make of Cedar Falls—and what Cedar Falls will make of her. This town has a way of either embracing you completely or rejecting you like a transplanted organ.
I wonder which it will be for her. And why, exactly, do I care?
Chapter 3 - Lucy
I stand in the doorway long after Riley's truck disappears around the bend, the night air cool against my face. Something about him lingers—not just his woodsy scent that somehow made it into the cottage with him, but a presence. Like the air is different where he stood.
With a sigh, I close the door and lock it, testing the handle twice. It's not that I don't believe him about Cedar Falls being safe; it's just habit. Growing up in Phoenix taught me caution.
I turn to face my new home, really taking it in now that I'm alone. The living room is small but cozy, with worn hardwood floors and a stone fireplace that dominates one wall. The furniture is clearly secondhand but clean—a blue sofa with a crocheted throw, a rocking chair by the window, a coffee table with water rings marking its surface.
It feels lived-in. Like someone else's life that I'm borrowing.
My footsteps echo as I wander from room to room. The kitchen cabinets are stocked with mismatched plates and cups. The bathroom has a clawfoot tub with a shower attachment. Upstairs, the main bedroom has a double bed with a handmade quilt and windows that face east—I'll get morning light.
The second bedroom—or office, according to Riley—is empty except for a desk and chair. Perfect for writing, I think, running my fingers along the desk's edge.
Not that I've written anything in months. Not since Dad died.
The kitchen is outdated—yellow countertops from the seventies, an ancient gas stove—but it's clean and spacious enough. Through a doorway, I can see a small living room with a stone fireplace.
"Furnace is in the basement," I tell her, moving through the kitchen. "Thermostat's here. Pilot light for the water heater sometimes goes out when it storms."
She follows me as I do a quick check of the major systems. The furnace rumbles to life when I adjust the thermostat, and the faucets in the kitchen and bathroom run clear after a moment of rusty water.
"Looks like everything's working," I say, heading back to the kitchen. "Mrs. Abernathy will probably stop by tomorrow with paperwork and a proper set of keys."
Lucy is standing in the middle of the living room, turning slowly to take it all in. There's something vulnerable about her in thismoment—a woman surrounded by empty rooms that aren't yet home.
"It's bigger than I expected," she says. "The listing said one bedroom, but there seem to be two upstairs."
"The smaller one was probably counted as an office." I check my watch. Nearly seven. "You need help bringing in your things?"
The offer surprises me as much as it seems to surprise her. I don't usually go out of my way for customers, especially not after hours.
"Oh, I just have this for now," she says, lifting her overnight bag. "Until my car's fixed."
Right. Her car. The reason we're here in the first place. How could I forget?
"I'll call you tomorrow once I've had a chance to look at it more closely," I say, moving toward the door. "Shop opens at eight."
She nods, following me to the back door. "I'll come by in the morning, if that's okay? I should probably get a rental car if mine's going to be out of commission for a few days."
"Nearest rental place is in Oakridge, twenty miles east," I tell her. "But Lou at the diner might know someone who could lend you something. Town's good about helping newcomers." Sometimes, anyway. When those newcomers aren't named Carter.
"Thanks for the tip." She hesitates, then adds, "And really, thank you for going above and beyond tonight. I know you didn't have to."
There's something in her eyes—a warmth, a directness—that makes me look away. I'm not used to being looked at like that, like I've done something special just by doing the bare minimum of human decency.
"No problem," I mutter, stepping outside. The evening air is cooling rapidly now, carrying the scent of pine and distant woodsmoke. "Lock up behind me. This town's safe, but still."
She nods, one hand on the door. "Goodnight, Riley."
I nod once in acknowledgment, then turn and head back to my truck. As I start the engine, I glance back at the cottage. Lucy stands in the doorway, illuminated from behind, watching me leave. She raises a hand in farewell, and after a moment's hesitation, I return the gesture.
Driving away, I tell myself I'm just doing my job. That's all this is. A broken-down car, a stranded customer. I've handled dozens of similar situations without giving them a second thought.
But as I turn back onto Main Street, I find myself wondering what Lucy Mitchell will make of Cedar Falls—and what Cedar Falls will make of her. This town has a way of either embracing you completely or rejecting you like a transplanted organ.
I wonder which it will be for her. And why, exactly, do I care?
Chapter 3 - Lucy
I stand in the doorway long after Riley's truck disappears around the bend, the night air cool against my face. Something about him lingers—not just his woodsy scent that somehow made it into the cottage with him, but a presence. Like the air is different where he stood.
With a sigh, I close the door and lock it, testing the handle twice. It's not that I don't believe him about Cedar Falls being safe; it's just habit. Growing up in Phoenix taught me caution.
I turn to face my new home, really taking it in now that I'm alone. The living room is small but cozy, with worn hardwood floors and a stone fireplace that dominates one wall. The furniture is clearly secondhand but clean—a blue sofa with a crocheted throw, a rocking chair by the window, a coffee table with water rings marking its surface.
It feels lived-in. Like someone else's life that I'm borrowing.
My footsteps echo as I wander from room to room. The kitchen cabinets are stocked with mismatched plates and cups. The bathroom has a clawfoot tub with a shower attachment. Upstairs, the main bedroom has a double bed with a handmade quilt and windows that face east—I'll get morning light.
The second bedroom—or office, according to Riley—is empty except for a desk and chair. Perfect for writing, I think, running my fingers along the desk's edge.
Not that I've written anything in months. Not since Dad died.