“No, it’s my debutante gown.”

He barely hid a smile. “Of course it is.”

“I’m only wearing it now because it didn’t fit in my suitcase.”

“And the crown?”

“It’s a tiara, and it’s my best one. I didn’t want to crush it.”

He adjusted the ball cap on his head and squinted at me, clearly wondering if I was one brick short of a load.

I sighed heavily. “My car is tiny, so my suitcase is small. Not everything fit in it.”

“Why not get a moving van?”

I shrugged. “I don’t have any furniture.”

“You own a ball gown, but not a couch?”

I sat up taller. “This isn’t just a ball gown to me, mister. I wore it on the most special night of my life, okay? I danced in it and felt beautiful. Inspired. Hopeful. Like my life was just beginning. That’s a feeling I need to hold on to, especially now.”

“Why especially now?”

I sniffed and looked away from him. “It’s personal.”

“Okay.”

I fully expected him to press for details and was slightly annoyed when he didn’t. “If you must know, my life circumstances have changed of late, and I no longer possess the resources I once had.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“My family has fallen upon hard times,” I went on, as if he’d asked for more.

“It happens.”

“My father made some . . . creative accounting decisions, which turned out to be called tax evasion, and now he’s awaiting trial. But he’s not a bad person—he just made some bad choices.”

The poor guy clearly didn’t know what to say, but I couldn’t seem to stop talking (this is a recurring problem I have).

“We had to sell pretty much everything we owned, right down to the furniture, just to cover the back taxes and legal fees. My mother moved back in with my grandmother, who said ‘I told you not to marry a Beaufort’ and offered to set me up with some crusty old tycoon at her country club, but I said no thanks. I’d rather be poor than be someone’s trophy wife.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Then we had a huge fight, because my family isn’t used to me standing up for myself. They thought I would just do what they told me to do, because I always have. But not this time.” I lifted my chin. “This time, I’m doing what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

“To start over somewhere fresh. I’m going to run my own business.”

“What kind of business?”

“A bakery.”

“A bakery?” Griffin sounded surprised.

“Yes.” I sipped up the last of the ice water. “I’ve always loved to bake, and I’m actually really good at it, but my parents said I wasn’t allowed to go to culinary school.”

“Why not?”

“They said I had to go to a university and pick an appropriate major like history or French. So I did.”

“Which one?”

“French.” I smiled mischievously. “And during my junior year abroad, I secretly studied with a Parisian pastry chef. Of course, after graduate school, I took the cushy job my parents wanted me to, lived in the fancy apartment they provided, and attended all the boring social events they insisted upon, where I sipped expensive champagne, danced with men in tuxedoes, and pretended to have a good time.”

“Sounds like torture.”

“It was,” I said, although he might have been kidding. “Because inside, I was slowly dying. I kept asking myself, ‘Is this it? Am I just going to be bored and unfulfilled the rest of my life? Is being rich worth the price of my soul?’”

“I don’t know. Your soul is probably more expensive than mine.”

“So I decided to do something about it, and for the last couple years I worked in the kitchen at a coffee shop every morning on the sly, from five to eight a.m. Then I’d run home, clean up, and make it into the office by nine. My family never knew.”

“Good for you.” He chuckled, and I noticed the dimple in his chin.

“What’s funny about that?”

“I don’t know.” He adjusted his cap again. “It’s just that a job is an odd thing to have to hide from your parents.”

“Not if they’re my parents. Anyway, when this huge reversal of fortune happened, I decided to take it as a sign I needed to escape my old life and start a new one somewhere else. So that’s what I’m doing.”

“Good luck.”

“Thank you.” I studied him then, waiting for him to tell me his story. It was only polite to reciprocate, right? “Sooo,” I prompted.

“So what?”

“So what about you?”

“I’m a mechanic. My parents approved.”

I waited for more. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Did you always want to be a mechanic?”

He gave me a funny look. “You talk a lot.”

“Conversation is a lost art.”

“I think you found it.”

I sighed, giving up on art and moving on to more practical matters. “So how bad is the damage to my car? Will it be expensive to fix? How long will it take?”

“Hard to say.” He studied my MG for a moment, then got down on his hands and knees and looked at the ground beneath it. “Thanks to the pothole you hit, you definitely need a new tire and some work on your front end, but I think you might need brakes too. How old is this car?”

“Old.”

“Do you know what year?”

“I think 1971.”

He looked over at me. “You think?”

I shrugged. “That’s what the guy said.”

“What guy?”

“The guy who sold it to me last week. I got a really good deal on it because it had been in his barn for a while.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Griffin got to his feet and brushed off his hands. “I’ll look everything over tomorrow. Make sure it’s safe.”

“But how much is that going to cost? As I’ve mentioned, I’m not particularly liquid at the moment.”

“We’ll figure something out.” He glanced down the street toward the pub and rubbed the back of his neck. His clothes were kind of dirty and he looked like he might have gotten sweaty earlier, but I found myself admiring his broad shoulders and trim waist. I bet he had those six-pack ab muscles too. I’d never actually seen any in person, but he seemed like the kind of guy that would have them.

“Would you like to sit down?” I scooted over to one side of the bench to make more room.

He ambled over and sat, crossing his arms over his chest. “Thanks.”

I couldn’t stop staring at his thick forearms, his wide hands. “Thanks for not letting me hit the ground, by the way. You must have fast reflexes.”

He shrugged. “More like good instincts.”

We sat in silence for a moment, and I looked up and down the street. “This looks like a cute little town. Did you grow up here?”

“Yep.”

I waited for him to ask me where I’d grown up.