Page 9 of Wrecked for Love (Buffaloberry Hill #1)

ELIA

The next morning, the first thing I did was check on Claire. The door was nearly closed but no longer jammed, thanks to that kick. The lock was busted, and the frame cracked. Through the narrow gap, I could only see one side of the room—Koda’s bed, empty.

I turned back. I didn’t need to see her; I just needed to know if anything was off. Trusting my mutt and the hush, I figured everything was fine, and I knew exactly where my boy had gone—with her, in bed.

That thought made me smile. True to form, she’d done the opposite of what I’d told her. But after what she’d been through, if she needed a soothing, furry companion beside her, I wasn’t about to argue. She wasn’t running from just a nightmare. She was running from something real and terrifying.

I headed to the kitchen, planning to whip up breakfast, not just for me but for her too. It felt strange having someone else around, someone to cook for. I wasn’t even sure why I was doing it, but something in me wanted her to have a decent start, especially after last night.

Moments later, she appeared, looking a bit more refreshed.

“Morning.” I gave her a side glance, keeping my attention on the chopping. An unexpected pang hit me when I realized she was dressed, bag in hand, ready to go.

“Morning. Didn’t know ranchers moonlight as chefs. So, you’re more than just a sandwich artist, huh?”

“What can I say? Multitalented,” I replied, finally letting myself look at her.

Her hair was tied back, a few strands framing her cheeks.

And those eyes—blue like the Buffaloberry River’s upstream—were bright under the sunlight.

At first glance, she might’ve passed for some fragile doll with that gaze.

But she was as far from sweet and docile as a habanero pepper is from sugar.

That spark beneath her cool exterior? It could set a forest on fire.

I hadn’t been thrilled about having my night interrupted by an intruder, especially by her. But now…now, I wasn’t so sure I wanted her to leave just yet.

We sat down to eat.

“Now, this is a proper meal,” I said as I handed her a plate stacked with eggs, bacon, and toast.

“This is amazing!” she said, digging in like she hadn’t eaten in days, which was actually true, apart from my quick sandwich last night.

Koda wandered over to her, his nose twitching at the smell of bacon, eyes big and pleading.

“Koda, come here, pal,” I called, standing up to slip him a treat, steering clear of the greasy strip. After that, I returned to her side.

Claire gave me an apologetic look. “Sorry, I did let him sleep on the bed. I couldn’t say no to those puppy eyes.”

I replied with an amused hum, already knowing she’d caved to them. It didn’t take a psychic to figure that out. “It’s fine. He has that effect on people.”

She picked up another strip of bacon, savoring each bite and licking her fingers with a grin of pure satisfaction. “What’s it like, living in Buffaloberry Hill?” she asked, her enthusiasm still evident.

“It’s nice. But like anywhere else—whether it’s a big city or a small town—there are things you won’t love.”

“People or the surroundings?”

She fired off the questions like she wanted to unravel my story, but she was careful not to reveal her own.

“A bit of both, I guess,” I replied. “Some folks are stuck in their ways, and as for the environment, well, let’s just say the winters are tougher than the people.

In some ways.” I didn’t want to go into the detail of how differently you could interpret the meaning of “toughness” in this town. It was all in its history.

“I suppose the farm’s why you stayed? Must’ve been in the family for generations,” she probed.

“Well, how about this? Tell me where you’re from, and I’ll tell you mine.”

She tilted her head, then cocked her brows. “Buffaloberry—is that a real thing?”

A diversion.

Fine. She wasn’t going to tell me.

“It is an actual fruit,” I replied. “They’re these tiny red berries with a sharp, tangy bite. They grow all over the hills around here, practically the town’s claim to fame.”

“Are they edible?”

“Definitely. My buffaloberry jam is a must-try.” I didn’t know why I was so eager to impress her.

Maybe because I didn’t want her to leave.

There was a muted satisfaction in pleasing someone—not the buyers at the market looking for cattle, but someone who might sit across from me at the breakfast table. Someone like her.

We finished up breakfast, and despite the lightness of the moment, I knew she’d be on her way soon.

Something inside tripped me, like a wake-up call that I was about to miss my last chance.

But I shoved the feeling aside. I couldn’t afford to go all starry-eyed, especially not with someone hiding secrets as big as hers.

She followed me outside. The storm had certainly left its mark. The ground was soaked, puddles reflecting the pale morning sky. The fresh scent of wet earth filled the air, sharp and invigorating.

“Let’s get your car fixed,” I said, pulling on my boots. “You think you can manage the walk?”

Claire stayed rooted on the porch, frowning. “Why can’t we just take your truck? We drove here last night, didn’t we?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Never seen mud before?”

She crossed her arms, eyeing me with a mix of irritation and defiance. “Seriously? These are my comfortable shoes.”

I glanced down at her light sneakers. Yep, those wouldn’t survive the mud bath ahead, especially not with that puddle that looked more like a swamp. But I couldn’t resist.

“Fine, I’ll fix your car myself,” I offered, stepping toward the driveway.

“No! No! Wait!” She jumped off the porch and grabbed my arm. “We’ll do it together.”

I glanced down at her shoes again, trying not to grin. Still cautious, huh? Even willing to risk her precious “comfortable shoes” over her trust issues. She must’ve forgotten—I didn’t even have her car keys.

“All right, we’ll take the truck.” I backed it up, sparing her from another muddy step.

Branches littered the driveway, and the fields beyond looked like they’d been drenched in a cold shower, their long grass still bent from the wind.

The whole world seemed washed clean, but her car didn’t get the memo.

The thing was a mess—mud caked up to the windows, the hood still dripping with water, and the windshield smeared with dirt.

I shook my head, unable to resist a grin.

“Looks like your car fought Mother Nature and lost,” I commented, reminding her of last night’s stubbornness.

She sighed, giving in. “Fine, fine. You want credit? You saved me. I admit, it was stupid to insist on staying in the car.”

I shook my head in amusement. “Not looking for credit, just trying to fix this up. Got any tools?” I asked, rounding to the trunk.

She quickly stepped in front of me. “I’ll get them.”

Her reaction was almost too quick, too guarded. Like she didn’t want me anywhere near whatever was in that trunk.

“Huh, so there is a dead body on my property?” I quipped.

She shot me a glare and handed me the toolbox. “No bodies,” she said flatly, but her eyes had that edge of defensiveness.

“Any idea what’s wrong with the car?” I asked, more to test her than anything.

She gave me a pointed look. “No clue. I’ve driven this baby for three years, not a single problem.”

“Guess it picked a scenic spot to break down,” I said, gesturing to the surrounding landscape.

She glanced around as if truly noticing the view for the first time, then slid her fingers under the hood latch. “My bet’s on the spark plugs.”

I narrowed my eyes, realizing she wasn’t as clueless as she pretended to be. “Fuel injectors,” I challenged, crossing my arms.

“You’re on!”

With a confident smirk, she popped the hood. We leaned in, eyes on the engine, like two detectives on the case. At one point, she bumped my hand with the wrench.

“Careful,” I warned, resisting the urge to smear my greasy fingers across her cheek. “This isn’t amateur hour, you know.”

“Amateur? Looks like you’re the one who needs a how-to manual,” she shot back with a restrained smile, shoving another tool in my direction.

I shot her a mock glare but went back to business, checking the injectors. Everything looked fine—visually, at least. Still, I knew we might need the big guns—more tools—but I decided to check the usual suspects first, starting with the spark plugs, since she was so sure they were the culprits.

“Aha!” she exclaimed when I pulled the plugs out. “Look at these—dirtier than a dog’s chew toy. And don’t they look a little worn to you?”

“Damn it.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Spark plugs it is.”

Beaming victoriously, she nudged me with her elbow. “Told you.”

I gave in. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get these fixed before Mother Nature gets any bright ideas and drops another storm on us.”

We got to work, her handing me tools like a seasoned pit crew while I loosened, cleaned the plugs, and checked the gaps. “Lucky for you, no cracks,” I said. “Otherwise, you might’ve been stuck with me for another day.”

I caught the pause—just a second—but we both pushed the thought aside. Focus on the plugs , I told myself. After a bit more wrangling, I locked the last one into place.

“There. Your baby’s back in business. Good for another three years of flawless driving. Want to do the honors and start her up?”

She glanced at her oil-smudged fingers, clearly searching for something to wipe them on.

I propped my foot up on the car and pointed at my jeans. “Go ahead, right here.”

Her eyes widened. “No way.”

“Come on, I don’t mind. Wipe away.”

Hesitant at first, she finally gave in, wiping her hands on my jeans with a reluctant laugh.

She slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the engine purred to life.

“Well, would you look at that?” I said, closing the hood as I watched her triumphantly. “Where’d you pick up those car smarts, anyway?”

“My brother taught me. He was a mechanic,” she said, her gaze drifting somewhere far away for a moment.