Page 11 of When the Smoke Clears

Cursing under my breath, I pop open the trunk and begin the tedious task of unearthing the spare tire. The space is a mess—scrubs, unopened mail, a bag of stale Milano cookies.

So that’s where those went!

I finally find the spare, but the jack’s missing. Dammit! I lent it to my neighbor months ago.

My head pounds behind my eyes as I pull out my phone and tap open my insurance app, fingers tapping in my information. A series of automated messages flashes on the screen, chirping false cheer with wishes for a fantastic day as it notifies me that a tow truck has been dispatched.

Ace Towing. Fricken awesome. This is precisely the kind of return to Wildhaven I wanted to avoid.

I sit in my car, the engine silent, glancing at my phone repeatedly as thirty long minutes crawl by.

Finally, the rumble of a tow truck engine breaks the monotony. I spot the truck’s bulky frame rolling down the road and slide out of the car, standing in front of it with crossed arms.

The driver steps out, a man clad in an Ace Towing t-shirt that has seen better days, and a pair of worn, oil-streaked Levi’s. A faded baseball cap rests on his head.

As he draws closer, his features come into focus. It’s Greg Sanders. Ugh. Of course, I’m rescued by a guy I knew ten years ago. His biggest accolade in high school was making $20 for drinking a bottle of hot sauce on a dare.

“Hey!” he exclaims with a grin, striding my way with an easy confidence. “What can I help you with?”

I nudge my foot toward the sagging tire that looks pitiful under the car’s weight. “I’ve got a flat.”

“That you do.” He chuckles, and his eyes crinkle as he scrutinizes me. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“No, I don’t think so. Anyway, I have the spare. I just need to get it onto the car.”

He studies me with a hint of doubt lingering in his gaze, then shrugs it off. “Yeah, sure. I’ll get that done for you right away.”

I offer a tight, polite smile, watching as he crouches and begins to work on the tire.

A small cloud of dirt puffs up from the ground beside him, and he glances up. “So what brings you to this area?”

Wow, Greg is quite the “Chatty Cathy.” I hadn’t remembered that about him. “Just passing through.”

“You should stop and spend some time in Wildhaven.” He grabs the torque wrench to finish his task. “It’s a real gorgeous area. There’s plenty of hiking and exploring to do.”

“I’m not on that kind of trip.”

He finishes tightening the lug nuts, stands, and wipes his hands on his dirty jeans. “Well, maybe next time.”

I nod.

“Your tire’s all fixed. I just need you to sign so we can charge your insurance.”

I hadn’t thought of that. He clearly hasn’t bothered to read my name yet. He hands me the iPad, and I scribble my name above the printed letters.

As he takes the tablet from me, he turns to leave, but then glances down at the information, and when his gaze meets mine again, there’s a spark of recognition in his eyes.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “Isla. I thought you looked familiar.”

I exhale, forcing a smile but staying silent.

“You coming home for a visit?”

“Not exactly.”

“I haven’t seen you since high school graduation. What’s it been, ten years?”

“About.” I sidestep him, reaching for the car door handle and sliding into the driver’s seat.