“A click. Bad starter then, probably.” He cranes his head toward the overhead doors. Trying to see my car, maybe? “What kind of hot ride you got these days? I could see you in a Lexus. You always were classier than the other girls around here.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Me? Classy?”

I wore hand-me-downs from the ladies at church who had daughters a few years older than me until I was sixteen and moved up to shopping at the ultra-discount stores. Maybe he’s referring to the fact that I kept my boobs and butt covered, unlike some of the girls who scored that ride in his Firebird.

What’s he going to think when he gets a look at my Pontiac? I’m going to blow his Lexus theory right out of the water. I’m still the same Holly I was before; the fringe and glitter of Nashville haven’t changed me yet. Nor have the couple of weeks of being tied to Creighton’s billions.

Logan’s eyes fix on mine again. “Yeah, you. You’ve always been a class act. Although these days, I’m probably wrong about the Lexus. I bet you’re rollin’ in a Bentley.” His reference to Creighton’s money is impossible to miss, as is the slow, measuring look he gives me. “Yeah, I could see a Bentley suiting you just fine.”

I’m not sure why he’s so impressed. I’m wearing washed-out skinny jeans, a heather-blue thigh-length sweatshirt, a short black leather jacket, cowboy boots, and my trucker hat. Not exactly runway couture here.

“No Bentley. No Lexus.” Although Creighton has a chauffeur-driven Bentley, it’s not mine. So I might as well burst Logan’s bubble quickly.

He shrugs. “All-righty then. Let’s go see what we’re working with.”

I follow him out, almost slamming into his back when he stops short in front of the Pontiac.

“Please, woman, tell me that ain’t your ride.”

I pull my shoulders back and brazen it out. “Sorry it’s not up to your standards.”

He jerks his head to the side to get a look at me. “It ain’t up to your standards—that’s the problem.”

I shrug. “The high life isn’t always as glamorous as you’d think.”

He mutters something under his breath, and I don’t catch all of it. What I do catch sounds like sorry excuse for a husband.

“Keys?” He holds out a hand, and I drop them into it.

He has to adjust the seat way back before he can squeeze into the car. When he slides the key in the ignition and turns it, there’s nothing. Not even a click or a clunk.

“Um, there was a clunk too. After the click.”

“Yep. Starter or the solenoid’s shot. I can order one, but I won’t be able to get the part until Monday at the earliest. Maybe Tuesday.”

Considering it was going on five o’clock on Saturday, I wasn’t surprised by this.

“Okay. I really appreciate it.”

He climbs back out of the car. “Happy to help out the hometown girl who made good. I’ll get Johnny from the gas station to help me push it into the garage.”

“Thank you. Seriously. That’s one less thing to worry about then.” Except for how the hell I’m going to get to Gran’s, I add mentally.

I’m exhausted from the long day, but I pop the trunk anyway and haul out my bag. I round the car to the passenger side door and collect my purse. Hooking the strap over my shoulder, I shut the door and start around the hood.

Logan throws a hand out in a “stop” gesture. “What the hell are you doing?”

My eyes cut to his. “Going to Gran’s house.”

“On foot?”

“It’s not that far.”

“It’s cold as shit, and it’s at least three miles if it’s a step. You ain’t walking.”

I bristle at his pronouncement. Lord above, save me from alpha males.

“I’m not sure when you decided it was cool to make decisions for me, but I’m just going to do whatever the hell I want, thanks.”

“Holly, don’t be ridiculous.”

My temper flares hot and fierce. All thoughts of previous embarrassment are shoved right out the window.

“Do you not recognize the signs of a woman about to break? Because I’m hanging on by a thread here, and the last goddamn thing I need is another man telling me what I can or can’t do.” My voice has climbed an octave and a half by the time I finish snapping the words out.

“Whoa. Honey. Calm—”

“Don’t even . . .”

He holds up two hands in front of him, as if warding off the she-beast taking shape before him. “I’ll give you a ride. If you want.” He hastily tacks on that last bit, and I can feel my anger draining away as I agree.

“Okay. Thank you.”

Logan tugs my bag from my hand, and I don’t fight him. I’m whipped. Dog tired. Worn out. I just want to get to Gran’s so I can face-plant on what I hope to God are clean sheets, and hibernate for a few days.

We pull out of the service station in Logan’s big black jacked-up Chevy truck. The seats are dark gray leather, and it smells new. I scan the interior, looking for a dangling pine tree air freshener labeled New-Car Smell, but I don’t see one. The electronics are so fancy that I think it must be new. Apparently Logan Brantley is the one living large these days.

He flips on the radio—to a country station, of course—and heads out of “downtown” toward my gran’s. I do the mental quote-y fingers around “downtown” because it’s one blinking red light and four corners. Given that the people of Gold Haven, Kentucky, aren’t all that creative, they just refer to downtown as the Four Corners. There’s the beauty shop corner, the pharmacy/post office corner, the pub corner, and the service station corner. That’s the sum total of the Four Corners.

The radio DJ’s voice catches my attention when he says my name. My latest single comes on. I should be giddy over the fact that I’m getting airplay, but all I can manage right now is a slight smile. I didn’t come home to be Holly Wix.

Logan looks at me as if he’s expecting me to say something, so I mumble the first thing that comes to me. “Guess you know you’ve made it when you hear yourself on your hometown radio station.”

Logan shakes his head. “That’s satellite. Local station plays you all the damn time. Don’t play much else.”