Page 76 of Chasing Callie

The mention of Dad hits me square in the chest, and a solid ache pulses there, but I push my grief down. “You don’t have to do that, Mrs. Cunningham.”

“Nonsense. You helped me, so I feed you.” She pats my arm with surprising strength. “You’re so much like your father. Hearts bigger than your heads.”

After she putters away in her newly serviced Buick, Roger sidles up next to me.

“We can’t keep taking on charity cases, Knox.” He crosses his arms and scowls. “That’s the third one this week. We have bills to pay. If we focus on tourists, we can make more money, and when you make more, so do I.”

Heat flares in my chest. “Since when is helping our neighbors charity?”

“This isn’t a fucking soup kitchen.” He gestures toward the empty bay. “You think Mrs. Cunningham’s forty bucks covers the time you spent diagnosing her brake system? The parts you didn’t charge her for?”

I step closer, letting every inch of my six-foot-two frame remind him who owns this place. “This is my business.” Technically, it’s mine and my brothers, but I’m the only one who works here. Roger has been working here for fifteen years, he knew my dad well, but that doesn’t mean he gets to tell me how to operate.

“You’re running it into the ground,” Roger growls.

My brow wrinkles. “Because I care about helping Mrs. Cunningham?”

“Community doesn’t pay for your mortgage⁠—”

“These people built this town,” I cut him off, my voice dropping to that dangerous level that usually sends people backing away. “They worked in the mines, ran the shops, raised their kids here when it was nothing but dirt roads and fucking hope. Now all these tourists roll through, dropping stacks at the fancy restaurants and boutique hotels, thinking they’re keeping us afloat, but they don’t give a shit about the locals. What happens when they leave once it starts to get cold?”

Summer is the high season. Sure, there are tourists in the winter, but they stick to the mountain slopes and the fancy hotels while the town dries up. The summer is what keeps Big Ridge going, but once it’s over, we all struggle, and all we have is each other.

Roger shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t back down. “Look, I get it, but⁠—”

“No, you don’t get it.” I’m in his face now, every ounce of frustration from the past few years bubbling over. Dad always helped people out. It was who he was. I know the business is hurting and the bills are piling up but changing that makes it like I’m dishonoring his memory. “You want to know what happens when we stop taking care of our own? They leave. They pack up and move to cities where they can afford to live, and pretty soon this place will have no soul left.”

The shop falls silent except for the ticking clock and the distant hum of the air compressor. Roger stares at me for a long moment, then shakes his head and walks back into the garage. My fists clench. I need air before I do something stupid like throw a wrench at his stupid fucking head. Storming around the counter, I push out of the front door.

The late afternoon sun hits my face as I step outside. Exhaling, forcing the frustration out of me in a harsh breath, I stride toward the bench dad and I built together. Williams is still carved on the top of it. I sit and pull out my phone, wondering what Callie is up to, but before I can even unlock it, a silver BMW pulls into the lot.

Great. Another tourist who probably wants me to detail their overpriced car or diagnose some imaginary noise they heard once. Worse, if there is something wrong, those parts will take forever to get. Angry, rich tourists are the bane of my existence.

The driver’s door opens and a guy who looks like he fell out of a catalog steps out. Dress pants pressed within an inch of their life, black silk button-up that probably costs more than most people’s mortgages, and shoes that have never seen actual dirt. He waves at me like we’re old friends, all teeth and manufactured charm. Bet he paid a pretty penny for that smile.

I nod back, keeping my expression neutral. The guy has tourist written all over him, from his perfect haircut to the way he surveys the shop like he’s disappointed.

He fixes his face—too bad it’s still ugly—and joins me at the bench. “Is this your place?”

“Car trouble?” I deflect, not feeling like making small talk with someone who probably thinks this town is cute and adorable.

“I might need a tune-up,” he says, though his attention keeps wandering to the building itself rather than focusing on his supposed car problems. He rubs his jaw and glances around like he’s taking inventory. “So, people really live here, huh?”

The condescension in his voice makes my teeth grind. “Some of us.”

“Must be nice,” he continues, oblivious to my growing irritation. “Quiet. Simple.”

Irritation stabs in my chest. It wouldn’t be the first time someone from the city came around accusing us of being simple-minded. We live in a small town, we’re not fucking neanderthals.

He fills the silence when I don’t reply. “I bet you know everyone’s business.”

“Small towns work that way.” I cross my arms, wishing he’d get to the point or leave.

“I imagine they do.” He chuckles but there’s something calculating behind it. “Say, do we know each other?”

“No.” Trust me, I’d remember this douche bag.

He tips his head. “Huh, I thought we might. Maybe we have mutual friends.”