Single Dad Fixed Woman’s Car on Way to Blind Date—Not Knowing She Was the Date He Dreaded…..
Twenty-five minutes later, Garrett stood in the restroom of The Gilded Elm, stripping off his wet yellow slicker and wiping the rainwater from his face with a stiff paper towel.
The restaurant was a sensory assault of Edison bulbs, reclaimed barn wood, and low, ambient jazz.
The air smelled of roasted garlic, truffle oil, and old money.
Garrett checked his reflection in the mirror above the copper sink.
His dark hair was still damp, pushed back carelessly from his forehead.
His navy blazer had survived the storm relatively unscathed beneath the slicker, but there was a faint smear of engine grease on the knuckle of his right thumb that no amount of scrubbing with citrus soap could lift.
He stared at that grease stain for a long moment.
“He’ll feel intimidated the moment he realizes what my company actually does,” her voice echoed in his ears, sharp and dismissive above the howling wind.
Garrett let out a low, breathy laugh that held no joy.
What were the odds?
Out of all the stranded motorists on Route 9W, out of all the blind dates scheduled in the Hudson Valley on a rainy Saturday night, he had spent twelve minutes playing mechanic to Vanessa Adler.
He considered walking out.
He could get back in his truck, drive home to Beacon, pay Mrs. Higgins double for her time, and spend the rest of the evening eating macaroni and cheese with Lily while watching animated movies.
It would be safe.
It would preserve his dignity.
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
A text from his sister Brenna: “She just texted Chloe! Her car broke down but she’s 10 mins away. DO NOT LEAVE. Be a gentleman, Garrett Miller. I mean it.”
Garrett pocketed the phone, straightened his collar, and walked out into the dining room.
“Miller party of two,” Garrett said to the hostess, a young woman holding an iPad.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Miller. Your table is ready. By the fireplace.”
He followed her through the maze of white linen tablecloths and low-backed leather chairs.
He ordered a bourbon neat from the waiter immediately upon sitting down, draining half of the glass before the ice could even melt.
He checked his watch: 7:15 PM.
Ten minutes later, the heavy oak front doors of The Gilded Elm swung open.
Garrett watched from his corner booth as Vanessa walked into the foyer.
She had shed the mud-splattered trench coat, revealing a sophisticated, emerald-green silk midi dress that clung to her frame with understated elegance.
Her hair had been smoothed down into a sleek, damp wave over one shoulder.
She looked regal, composed, and utterly out of place in a town where half the population owned snowplows.
The hostess greeted her, checked the iPad, and gestured toward the back of the dining room.
Garrett didn’t move.
He rested his forearms on the white tablecloth, his hands loosely clasped, watching her approach.
Vanessa walked behind the hostess, checking her reflection briefly in a darkened window pane.
As they reached the fireplace section, her gaze swept across the tables, searching for the hesitant, uncomfortable small-town father Chloe had described.
Her eyes landed on Garrett.
She stopped three feet from the table.
The hostess smiled brightly.
“Here we are! Ms. Adler, this is Mr. Miller. Your server will be right back with the wine list.”
The hostess retreated, leaving a silence between them so profound it seemed to drown out the crackling birch wood in the hearth.
Vanessa’s hazel eyes widened, tracing the line of Garrett’s jaw, the broad shoulders beneath the navy blazer, and finally dropping to the faint, dark stain of coolant and grease on his right thumb.
Her lips parted slightly, her breath catching in her throat.
“You,” she whispered, the syllable bare and stripped of all corporate armor.