An hour before opening, Adorn, Indigo's upscale boutique, was quiet. The quaint corner shop was like the closet many women fantasized about: walls of shoes, a small rack of dresses, a back corner of high-end handbags, and a display case of sparkling jewelry. Raw oak floors, exposed brick walls, and modern fixtures made up the place Indigo had dubbed her second home.

"What did you say you hit again?" Hazel Rodgers, the shop assistant, asked. She looked away from the shattered windshield on Indigo's truck, visible through the shop's glass front door, and back to Indigo.

Indigo stopped counting her stack of five-dollar bills. "I didn't hit anything." She placed the greenbacks in the cash register. "A crazy bird flew into me." The incident still made her heart beat a little faster. The way the sparrow had crashed into her windshield had startled her and caused her to swerve into another lane as she sped down the busy freeway.

"Is it still alive?" Emery, who was leaning against the checkout counter, asked. Emery Cortez was the owner of Percolate, a coffee shop two stores down, and had been Indigo's friend since their days at Crawford University. Hazel, whom Indigo had hired a few years ago when the shop started turning a profit, was Emery's cousin.

"What?"

"The bird."

Indigo shrugged then closed the cash drawer. "I don't know." She grabbed a pair of orange ballet flats off the counter and advanced to the side wall. "But look at my windshield . . ." She pointed to the vehicle parallel-parked in front of her store. "It looks like someone balled up a piece of paper and then tried to straighten it back out."

Hazel, a caramel-hued twenty-three-year-old, nodded in agreement with her boss. "It looks jacked." She sprayed cleaner onto the glass door.

"Something else I have to add to my to-do list," Indigo breathed out as she slapped the shoes back on the shelf. "Along with finding a man to escort me to my thirtieth birthday party."

Her mom had sent her a voice memo that morning reminding her to send a list of people she wanted invited to the party—an event she'd hoped her mom had forgotten about since she hadn't heard anything about it recently. But apparently Stella had just been waiting until after the baby shower to focus on the next big Clark family shindig.

"Find a man?" Emery asked and pushed away from the counter. The corners of her mouth quirked up. "What are you talking about, Indie?"

"Yeah." Hazel stopped dragging the rag over the glass, making more streaks than wrinkles on a pug's face. "'Cause that's easy." She rested her hand on her narrow waist. "All you have to do is come to the club with me, and I'll have you with a bae in no time."

Indigo's flawlessly made-up face scrunched. "I'm looking for a well-suited suitor."

"Not a hookup." Emery cut in. "And you can't find love in a club."

"That's not what Usher says," Hazel rebutted.

"But didn't he get divorced, though?" Indigo's nude pumps clicked on the hardwood as she crossed the store. "Or are you talking about his second marriage?"

"He didn't meet her at the club," Hazel clarified with a flick of her curly hair.

Emery tsked. "How do you know?"

"Shouldn't you be at work?" Hazel frowned at Emery. Their family resemblance shone through in moments like this, the snark in their tone and the roll of their eyes, even though Hazel was three shades browner than Emery. "Isn't coffee like . . . in demand right now?"

"I have employees for that." Emery gestured to Hazel. "Kinda like you."

Hazel pointed her rag-wielding hand at Emery. "I am a partner." Indigo's forehead crinkled, and her mouth twisted. "I am a coworker of . . ." Hazel rephrased, but Indigo slowly shook her head. "I am a—"

"Em . . . ploy . . . ee," Emery filled in, dragging out every last syllable.

"Argh! I can't stand you." Hazel sprayed glass cleaner at Emery. "I'm just here for the health insurance, anyway."

"Don't do that!" Indigo chimed in. She yanked the rag out of Hazel's hand. "The last thing I need is someone strutting in here and busting their ass on my floor." Her parents were lawyers; she knew people would sue for just about anything.

Emery gasped like a light bulb had flashed on in her head. "We have a cousin!" She gestured to Hazel then grabbed her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. "And he's single . . ."

"No." Hazel spoke up with a crinkle of her wide nose. "I mean, he is single, but she don't want him."

"Why not?" Emery stopped scrolling through her list of contacts. "He's a catch."

Hazel shook her head at Indigo. "She lies. He has a wandering eye."

"He's a cheater?" Indigo waved off the suggestion. She didn't want to put up with that again.

"No. I mean, his eye actually wanders . . . like, literally," Hazel cleared up. "It's glass."

Indigo stopped mopping the glass cleaner off the floor. "What?"

"Not Craig." Emery slapped Hazel's shoulder. "Nathan."

"Oh!" Hazel gasped. "Nathan." She nodded. "He's . . . cool. Plus . . ." She pointed toward the truck. "He can fix your window."

"Umm." Indigo fixed the waistband of her blush floral pleated camisole. "I don't know." Resistance formed in her coffee-filled stomach. She knew nothing about this man. Not his birthday, his sign, his relationship history, political party, favorite movie. Nothing. Hesitation made crinkles form in her eyebrows.

This is how it works. Just say yes, the voice in Indigo's mind told her. What's the harm?

She exhaled her doubts. "What's his number?"

Emery resumed scrolling through her phone. "I'll give you the address to his shop."

• • •

Indigo decided her lunch hour was the best time to go to the repair shop. It was only three blocks from her boutique, and she didn't want to drive her truck during rush hour in that calamitous condition.

It took her a while to get there. She had to squint through the cracks and slither like a slug down the road.

She pulled up in front of a fire station. Wait. She checked the address Emery had typed into her phone, the one she'd let Siri navigate her to. The number and street name were correct. It was the place: 3915 Paramount. There was no sign hanging on the fire station's brick frame to quell her confusion, but a candy-apple-red Chevy Nova in the parking bay caught her eye, so she pushed her nerves down and climbed out of her truck.

Early 2000s hip-hop boomed from surround sound speakers, and chilled air blasted all the skin the spaghetti straps of her top didn't cover. Her lust was genuine as she held back her curls to lean over and gawk at the 1966 vehicle. She wanted to touch it, glide her hands over its hard, sleek body. Her mouth watered as she bit her bottom lip and stood back up.

"Ma'am, can I help you?" a deep voice asked.

Indigo jumped before turning her head in the direction of the baritone. "Umm . . ." Her words got lost somewhere between her brain and her mouth as she let her eyes roll over the raven-haired, cocoa-eyed man invading her space.

Her brain began to thaw, and she spoke the first words that came to mind. "I'm in love."

The man kicked up his thick eyebrows in confusion.

"With this car," she continued, looking back at the vehicle then back at him before something else caught her attention.

She rushed past him, brushing against his arm in her haste. "Oh my God in heaven!" she squealed. "Is this a 1968 Plymouth Barracuda?" Her excited words rushed out as she quickly looked back and forth between the man and the car.

She saw something else, and her path quickly changed. Indigo almost ran into the man. He quickly used his hands to guide her toward the vehicle and away from his foot. "And a . . ." She stopped with a gasp and held her heart. "A '68 Firebird. I could cry."

He snapped his fingers as a smile grew on his handsome face. "You're Emery's friend." He placed his finger near his supple lips. "She told me you were coming in." His smile dimmed to just a little less than blazing. "And Hazel texted me . . . which is strange 'cause I didn't know she had my number."

Indigo turned to him, not realizing he'd been talking. "Huh?"

"Hazel texted that you needed a tune-up, with a . . . winking emoji." The dress-shirt-and-jeans-clad man shrugged. "I don't know what the faces mean, but . . . I'd be happy to help." He held out his hand. "I'm Nathan."

She placed her hand into his. A spark coursed up her arm as he firmly shook her hand. "Indigo," she softly replied, barely loud enough for him to hear over the music, so he leaned in, and she caught a whiff of the bergamot and lemon notes of his cologne. "Indigo Clark."

He stood back up with a nod. "How can I help you, Indigo?"