Moe Rogan, 59, vintage camper restoration specialist, had been cornered by the county fire chief for 12 minutes about a beat-up 1972 Winnebago he wanted gutted and rebuilt, when the first whiff hit him. Not the acrid tang of three-alarm chili simmering in cast iron pots, not the diesel fumes curling off the fire trucks parked along the small town’s main street, but jasmine and lemon pine cleaner, the exact scent he’d caught once two years prior when a woman had dropped off her 10-year-old son’s broken pop-up camper axle at his barn shop. He didn’t turn around at first. Knew better.
Everyone in the county had him pegged as the grumpy hermit who hid behind sanders and wiring diagrams, ever since his ex-wife left him eight years prior and spread half-truths around town about him being cold, unfeeling, impossible to get along with. He’d leaned into it, for the most part. Stopped coming to community events, only answered his work phone if the caller ID was an out-of-state client, kept his barn doors locked after 5 PM even when his buddies banged on them begging him to come out for beers.
He felt the bench dip next to him before he saw her. Lila Marquez, 47, the new county librarian, dropped her paper bowl of chili on the splintered pine table, her knee knocking hard against his denim-clad thigh by accident. “Sorry,” she said, laughing, her voice warm and rough like she spent all day yelling over rowdy storytime crowds. He glanced up, and there was a smudge of chili powder dusted across her left cheek, her dark curly hair pulled back in a messy braid threaded with a single red silk ribbon, her flannel shirt unbuttoned at the collar to show a tiny silver sun pendant nestled against her collarbone.
She’d been divorced for three years, he knew. Had seen the announcement in the local paper, had heard the old ladies at the grocery store gossip about how she’d kicked her cheating husband out with nothing but a suitcase and his golf clubs. He’d avoided her on purpose, mostly. She was too loud, too bright, too likely to call him out on the grumpy act he hid behind, and he didn’t have the energy to let anyone new in.
“I’ve been driving past your shop three times a week for a month,” she said, leaning in so her shoulder pressed flush against his bicep, the heat of her skin seeping through the thin worn fabric of his work shirt. “You never answer the door. I’ve got a 1968 Scotty Camper I inherited from my grandpa, needs a full restoration. Will you take the job?”
He tensed up, his grip on his plastic beer cup tightening until his knuckles went white. “I don’t take jobs for locals,” he mumbled, staring at the chili congealing in his bowl. “Too much drama.”
She snickered, and he felt her breath brush the side of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine he hadn’t felt in close to a decade. “What drama? Everyone says you’re just a big softie who hides behind a circular saw. I watched you spend three hours fixing my kid’s axle for free two years ago, stayed late just so we could make his camping trip that weekend. Don’t give me that tough guy crap.”
He froze. He’d forgotten she’d seen that. He’d thought no one had, that he’d gotten away with the small, quiet good deed without anyone noticing.
By the time the sun dipped below the tree line, the string lights strung between the oak trees flickered to life, casting gold across her face as they stood by the beer truck. He’d drunk two PBRs, she’d drunk three spiked seltzers, and she was telling him about how she wanted to turn the Scotty into a mobile library for kids who lived too far out in the hills to make it to the main branch downtown. She reached up without warning, swiping a smudge of chili off his jaw with her thumb, the rough pad of her finger brushing the gray stubble along his skin. He didn’t pull away.
“I don’t do casual dates,” he said, before he could think better of it, his voice lower than he meant it to be. “And I don’t want anyone talking about us around town.”
She grinned, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners, and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Who said anything about casual? And I don’t care what anyone says. Half the people in this town still think disco is coming back. Their opinions are garbage.”
He fished a crumpled business card out of his work pants pocket, scribbled his personal cell number on the back in faded Sharpie, and handed it to her. Her fingers brushed his when she took it, her nails chipped with dark green nail polish, a tiny thin scar running along her index finger he recognized from a woodworking accident she’d posted about in the local hobby group six months prior.
She tucked the card into the front pocket of her jeans, patted it once, and nodded toward her beat-up forest green Subaru parked at the curb. “I’ll text you first thing tomorrow. We can get breakfast at that diner off the interstate, no shop talk, no gossip, just us.”
He nodded, watching her walk away, her scuffed work boots crunching on the fallen oak leaves scattered across the sidewalk, and he realized he was already mentally clearing his schedule for the next three months to work on her camper.
