Rico Marquez, 53, vintage camper restoration specialist, had been dragged to the annual Black Mountain chili cookoff against his better judgment. Eight years prior, when his wife packed her bags and left for a job in Portland without so much as a note, he’d sworn off all small-town community events, convinced every smile tossed his way was just pity for the lonely guy who spent 12 hours a day sanding aluminum shells in a converted barn off the county road. He still had crusted grease under his thumbnail from prying a rusted water line out of a 1972 Airstream that morning, his flannel shirt still smelled like WD-40, and he’d already calculated the fastest route back to his property, where his hound dog and a half-empty bottle of bourbon waited. The chili in his paper bowl was lukewarm, over-seasoned with cumin, and he was 30 seconds from bailing when he turned too fast and collided with someone carrying a paper cup of spiced cider.
Half the cider sloshed onto his left sleeve. His first instinct was to grumble, apologize, and bolt before he had to make small talk, but then he looked down. She was 48 or so, dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners like she was already laughing at the mess. She stepped closer without hesitation, dabbing at the wet spot on his flannel with a crumpled paper napkin, her shoulder brushing his chest, and he caught a whiff of pear shampoo and cinnamon that made the back of his neck go warm. “My fault entirely,” she said, her voice low, like she talked to quiet rooms full of books all day, which, as it turned out, she did. She was Lena, the new county librarian, moved to town six months prior, and she’d been trying to track down the guy who restored vintage campers for weeks— the library had been donated a beat-up 1968 Shasta, and she wanted to turn it into a mobile book stop for the rural side of the county.
He wanted to say no. He only took private clients, charged a premium, didn’t have time for volunteer work that would require him to show up to library events and talk to strangers. But she sat down on a hay bale off to the side of the crowd, patted the spot next to her, and he found himself sinking down beside her, their knees knocking when he shifted his weight. She didn’t ask about his ex-wife, didn’t make sad eyes when he mentioned he lived alone with his hound, just asked him 100 questions about the difference between fiberglass and aluminum shells, laughed when he complained about people who tried to restore campers with cheap hardware from big box stores. When a kid left a jar of dill pickles on the hay bale between them, they both reached for it at the same time, their hands brushing, and he felt a jolt he hadn’t felt since he was 17, sneaking his dad’s pickup to take a girl to the drive-in. His internal monologue screamed that this was a bad idea, that he was setting himself up to get left again, that he was better off alone in his barn with his bourbon and his old John Wayne posters, but he couldn’t make himself stand up to leave.
The sun dipped below the treeline as the cookoff wrapped up, the air turning sharp enough to make his nose run. She pulled a chunky gray knit hat out of her canvas tote, tossed him a spare one, said she lived two blocks away and wouldn’t need it. He pulled it on, and it still smelled like that pear shampoo. He hesitated for three full seconds, the voice in his head yelling to go home, before he said he’d look at the Shasta for her, free of charge, if she let him buy her a slice of apple pie at the diner down the street first. She grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling even more, and said only if she got to pay for the coffee.
They walked the three blocks to the diner side by side, his scuffed work boots hitting the sidewalk next to her suede ankle boots, her shoulder brushing his every few steps, the noise of the cookoff fading behind them. When she held the diner door open for him, her fingers brushed his wrist again, and he didn’t flinch away.
