Helen Brenna - An Imperfect Match / Next Comes Love - An Imperfect Match / Next Comes Love

She swallowed around the lump in her throat even as she fought to keep her voice strong and bright. “Don’t be silly. You performed a service. You should be paid for it. You’re not running a charity, Jonas. It’s a business. How much do I owe you?”

Jonas sighed heavily as if he hated to tell her. “Seventy-five.”

She winced privately but grabbed her checkbook. “Check okay?”

“Of course. I know you’re good for it. Dean Halvorsen wouldn’t have hired you if he didn’t think you were good folk.” She smiled tightly and handed him the check. He gave it a cursory glance before saying, “Listen, when you get the money, you bring the car back and I’ll give you the newcomer ten percent discount off the total repair. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thank you, Jonas. Just leave the keys in the car when you drop it off.”

“Sure thing, Miss Annabelle. Take care.”

DEAN WAS packing up the last of his work tools when Sammy walked over to him, his expression puzzled. “You know anything about what went wrong with Annabelle’s car?”

Dean shook his head. “No. Why?”

“Dana just told me that Annabelle said someone put sugar in her gas tank.”

Dean stopped to stare at his brother. “Sugar?”

“Yeah. That’s pretty deliberate. Who’d want to do that?”

“I don’t know.” But he agreed with Sammy. Whoever did it meant to do something mean.

“Dana already took Annabelle and Honey home for the night so you don’t need to take them,” Sammy said, his expression still worried. “I gotta tell you, brother. This bothers me.”

“Me, too,” Dean admitted, glancing at Sammy. “You said something about Annabelle and Dana coming from troubled backgrounds. Anything I should know about?” Sammy’s silence was telling. Dean sighed. “Sammy, if she’s in some kind of trouble…”

“You gotta ask her, man. Dana swore me to secrecy and it’s nothing that’s Annabelle’s fault, but she should be the one to tell people if she wants them to know. Understand?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Sammy nodded, his relief evident. But as Dean went to climb into his truck, Sammy stopped him, his grave expression distinctly at odds with his usual jocular attitude. “No matter what, she’s a good person. Loyal to a fault I’d say. In some ways, she’s a lot like Beth.”

At the mention of his dead wife’s name, Dean tried not to stiffen. He knew Sammy was just trying to draw a parallel, but Dean was like a wounded bear inside when it came to the memory of his wife. Sometimes he couldn’t help but lash out at the people trying to reach out to him. “They’re nothing alike,” he said, pushing away the ache he felt inside. “And never will be.”

KNEES TUCKED into her chest, Annabelle willed the panic away. Someone had deliberately sabotaged her car. No one knew her here, which led her to surmise that someone from Hinkley had done this. And there was only one person she could imagine who hated her so much that they’d do such a thing.

Buddy. Her gaze strayed to the slip of paper lying on her coffee table. He was out on parole after serving eight years of his sixteen-year sentence. The prison system’s reward for good behavior.

And if it had been Buddy, this little stunt was simply a calling card. An ominous reminder that they had a score to settle, and he was ready to collect.

Shivering, she drew her knees tighter and squeezed her eyes shut to block out the fear that when she least expected it, his face would pop into view. Snarling, or worse, grinning with his jackal smile as he stalked her with revenge in his heart.

A knock at the front door nearly sent her hurtling to the floor in one startled movement as her heartbeat thundered in her ears. It was too late for visitors and it wasn’t like her neighbors were the sort to borrow a cube of butter. Her eyes watered and she wiped at them angrily. Get hold of yourself! It was highly unlikely Buddy was on the other side of that door, she told herself as she walked on wobbly legs to answer. “Who is it?” she asked, her voice still a bit high-pitched to sound normal.

“Dean.”

Relief was instant, but it served to make her knees even less stable. “What are you doing here so late?” she asked, opening the door and letting him in.

“We need to talk.”

“About what?” Annabelle asked, sincerely puzzled. “Is this about the new phone directory? I know I didn’t ask but your Rolodex is outdated. It’s a pain to go through and try to update those little cards when everything today is done digitally. The computer program I downloaded can be hot synced with your PDA—”

“I’m not talking about the damn phone directory. I want to know who would want to hurt you and Honey.”

She swallowed, stunned at his blunt question and how easily he managed to zero in on her biggest fear. Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “I don’t know,” she lied. The less Dean knew about her childhood in Hinkley, the better off he’d be. It was her burden to bear. No one else’s.

Crossing into the living room, she curled into a ball on the sofa. “It was probably some dumb kid playing a prank,” she said, trying to throw him off the true reason for her fear. “I admit, it’s a pretty nasty prank.” And an expensive one, she almost added, but didn’t want him to offer to pay for it because she could almost sense that’s where he was going. “And here I thought small towns were full of nothing but nice people. Hmm, guess not.”

Dean exhaled, regarding her with that steady gaze, seeming to pierce right through her flimsy excuse until she fought the urge to squirm. “Are you in trouble?” he asked quietly.

She laughed, but the sound was ragged even to her own ears. “No more than anyone else who just found out someone had tried to mix baking ingredients in her gas tank. This is more of a nuisance than anything else. It really puts a cramp in my travel plans.” She tried joking but, damn the man, he wasn’t laughing. Suddenly tired of her own game, Annabelle dropped the act. “Dean…I don’t know who might’ve done this. All I know is I’m without a vehicle in a town without public transit. That’s what I’m focusing on right now. Okay?”

“I’ll help you.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Why not?”

She sighed, wishing for a millisecond that her principles weren’t so ironclad, that she could just allow herself to sink into his strong arms, even for a moment, to let someone else shoulder the weight crushing her. But it was a foolish wish because Annabelle could never do that. She’d never allow herself to depend on someone else so completely. “Because I’m not the kind of woman who looks for someone to save her. I will save myself. I’ve been doing it for years and I’ve had plenty of practice.”

“I have a car you can borrow while yours is in the shop,” Dean said as if she hadn’t just spoken. “It’s in good shape and you need a reliable car.”

“What did I just say? Stop trying to save me! I can’t borrow one of your vehicles. What would people think?”

He looked at her incredulously. “Who cares?”

“I do.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that you worry about all the wrong things?”

She drew back. “Excuse me?”

“If you’re so worried about what people think why do you dress like you do?”

“I beg your pardon?” She could feel her cheeks pinking as a wave of mortification rolled over her. Suddenly, she was back in high school and the popular girls were criticizing her wardrobe. It was stupid to draw the parallel—she was not in high school any longer—but the feeling his statement evoked was pretty much the same. “Who are you to criticize my clothes?”

“Your boss,” he answered bluntly and she could only stare. Her momentary silence prompted him to continue though Annabelle was quite certain she didn’t want to hear any more of what Dean Halvorsen had to say.