Made For Ruin (Made for the Mountain Man #1)

1. Lainey

ONE

LAINEY

The scent of burning metal hits me before I even open the oven door.

Instantly, I hit the emergency shutoff switch, cutting power before smoke can start filling the diner.

“Yep,” Carl, our mechanic, says. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

He crouches down to examine the access panel beneath the oven’s main chamber. Then he shines his flashlight inside and frowns at whatever he sees. I kneel beside him, peering into the maze of wiring and heating elements.

“What do you think?” I ask nervously. “Could it just be a loose connection?”

Carl sighs. “I wish it was that simple. See that?” He points his flashlight at a section of badly corroded metal. “Your heating element is completely shot. And from the looks of it, the wiring’s starting to go too.”

I bite my lip. “Can we just replace it?”

“On a newer model, sure.” Carl sits back on his heels, wiping his hands on his coveralls. “But this oven’s older than you are, Lainey. They don’t even make these parts anymore.”

“How much for a new one?”

“Industrial unit this size?” Carl hesitates. “With delivery and installation, you’re looking at twenty thousand. Minimum.”

My stomach drops.

Twenty thousand might as well be twenty million right now. I don’t have that kind of cash. We’re barely making payroll as it is.

“And you’re sure there’s nothing else we can do?” I ask. “Just to get it going in the meantime?”

Carl’s expression softens.

“Tell you what. I know a guy who specializes in older systems like yours. I’ll reach out to him today. If he has the parts we need, I could probably get it running again.”

Hope rises in my chest. “Really? You think that could work?”

“Can’t make any promises,” Carl says. “But if he’s got what we need, I could do it for five thousand.”

My shoulders relax slightly. It’s still more than I want to spend right now, but it’s manageable. Maybe I can use my emergency fund.

“Okay,” I nod. “Let’s try it. And Carl, thank you. Really. This means everything.”

He waves off my gratitude with a callused hand.

“Don’t mention it. Your dad was good people. Man never turned away anyone who needed a meal, even when times were tight. Least I can do is help his girl keep the lights on.”

The simple kindness in his voice makes my throat tight. I walk him to the door, morning sunlight streaming through the windows.

“I’ll reach out in a few days once I track down those parts,” Carl says. He hefts his toolbox. “Take care of yourself, Lainey.”

I watch him head to his truck as I turn the sign on the door from “Closed” to “Open.”

Then I sigh as I walk over to the framed photos lining the wall, trying to remind myself that things won’t always be this way.

The Piney Creek Diner has been in my family for more than fifty years. My grandparents started it back in the sixties, and then my dad took over when they retired.

The diner sits right where the mountain roads converge, perched on forty acres that back up to the national forest. Truckers and tourists stop here on their way to the park, mixing with locals who’ve been coming in for breakfast since my grandparents’ time. From our front windows, you can see clear across the valley to where the mountains rise up blue and endless. In summer, wildflowers carpet the meadow behind the building. In winter, the snow drifts so high we have to plow the access road twice a day.

Developers have been after our land for years. And each time they call the amount of money they offer gets more ridiculous. But Dad always said this spot was sacred. Not just the diner, but the forest and the view and the quiet that comes with being the last stop before wilderness.

The diner’s not glamorous by any means. The linoleum floors are scuffed, the vinyl booths are more patch than original material, and the ancient coffee makers groan to life each morning. But it’s my family’s legacy.

And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it going.

With a final sigh, I wipe the tears from my eyes, tie on an apron and start getting ready for the morning rush.

I head into the walk-in fridge, hoping to find some muffins to tide us over since the oven is out. Our blueberry muffins are legendary in this town. People drive for miles just to get a taste. Unfortunately, there’s only one lonely blueberry muffin left.

My stomach rumbles loudly as I pick it up.

Money’s been tight these last few weeks, and I haven’t eaten anything since last night’s questionable gas station hot dog. Usually, I try to save the pastries for the customers. But after the morning I’ve had I could use a little pick me up.

I’m just about to unwrap it when the bell above the front door chimes.

“Morning, Lainey,” a voice calls out.

I recognize it instantly.

Joe is seventy-five and retired, but he still keeps cop hours. He comes in at 6:15 on the dot every morning and orders a cup of black coffee and a blueberry muffin while he reads the morning paper.

Sure enough, when I poke my head out of the kitchen, Joe is sitting at the counter in his usual spot. His faded John Deere hat sits crooked on his head, revealing wisps of white hair.

I emerge from the kitchen carrying the last blueberry muffin on a plate for him.

“Morning, Joe. Wasn’t expecting to see you today. I thought you and Margie were in Arizona all week.”

Joe grins. “Got back early. Margie wanted to stay a few extra days, but you know me. I can only take so much of that desert heat before I start missing the mountains.”

I grin back as I hand him the muffin. “How are the grandbabies?”

“Growing like weeds.” Joe chuckles as he unfolds his newspaper. “The little one, Timmy, he’s walking now. And talking up a storm.” His eyes scan the mostly empty diner. “How are things around here? Seems a little quiet for a Friday morning.”

I bite my lip, debating how much to share.

I don’t want to worry him, but Joe has been coming here for as long as I can remember. He’s practically family.

“Well, we’re having a little trouble with the bread oven,” I admit, trying to keep my voice light. “Carl’s looking into it.”

Joe frowns. “Sounds expensive.”

“It’s a little pricey. But it’s nothing we can’t handle.” I force a smile. “Anyway, let me grab you that coffee. Won’t be but a minute.”

“Take your time. Paper’s not going anywhere.”

I head to the back and start prepping the coffee makers. I fill the industrial-sized filters with our signature dark roast blend and slide the pots into place. Then I turn the machines on, watching as the hot water starts to drip through and the rich aroma of fresh coffee starts to fill the air.

While the coffee brews, I head back to the fridge to grab the creamer. Only this time, the door sticks. I brace my foot against the wall and pull harder. After a few tugs, it finally gives way with a sudden pop, sending me stumbling backward. Right into the shelf of waiting dishes.

Instantly, cold water from last night’s soaking pans cascades over me.

My uniform goes from crisp white to soaked and clinging in seconds. Leftover soap suds slide down my back.

“Lainey?” Joe calls out. “You okay back there?”

“I’m fine!” I call back. “Just a little accident. I’ll be right out.”

I look down at my soaked uniform. Water drips steadily onto the floor, forming puddles around my shoes.

Ugh.

Twenty thousand for a new oven. And now I need to somehow change clothes before the morning rush. This day just keeps getting better.

Somehow, I manage to wring out my apron enough that it’s not dripping everywhere. The white fabric is still damp and clinging uncomfortably to my skin, but it’ll have to do for now. I twist my hair up into a messy bun and head back out to the dining room.

“Here you go, Joe.” I pour the steaming liquid into his mug, watching it swirl and settle. “Fresh and hot, just like you like it.”

“You’re an angel, Lainey.” Joe winks at me before taking a sip. Then he sighs contentedly. “Hits the spot every time.”

I’m just about to set the pot back down on the hot plate when the bell over the door chimes again. I glance up, expecting to see one of our regulars.

But it’s not any of the familiar faces I’m used to seeing this time of morning.

It’s Marcus Ruins.

Instantly, my heart stutters in my chest.

Marcus is the hottest mountain man in Cooper Heights. At 6’4”, he fills the diner’s doorway with pure muscle. His broad shoulders strain against his flannel shirt, and the rolled sleeves show off forearms thick with veins. The fabric stretches across his chest, and his powerful thighs flex beneath worn jeans. His dark hair is cut short and neat, silver threading his temples, and his trimmed beard accentuates the sharp angle of his jaw. Everything about him screams mountain man strength.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Joe calls out jovially as he sets down his newspaper. “About time you came back to civilization, Ruin. It’s been a while.”

Marcus nods. “Morning, Joe.” Then his gaze lands on me. “Morning, Lainey.”

“Morning Marcus,” I chirp, ignoring the way my pulse kicks up a notch at the sound of my name on his lips. “Doing okay this morning?”

He settles onto a stool at the counter. “Doing just fine.”

I slide him a menu. “Kitchen’s not quite up and running yet. But I can scrounge up some toast in a few minutes if you’re hungry.”

“No thanks.” His amber eyes track a water droplet running down my neck before they flick back up to meet mine. “Just coffee for now.”

I swallow hard.

“Sure thing. I’ll grab a mug.”

Then I quickly turn away, grateful for the excuse to escape into the kitchen.

I’ve had a crush on Marcus since the day he moved to town five years ago. I took one look at his rugged, handsome face and I nearly forgot how to breathe.

Marcus is a real mountain man. Not one of those weekend warrior types who only pretend to rough it before retreating to their cushy cabins with all the modern amenities. He lives off the grid in a log cabin he built himself, deep in the heart of the mountains about twenty minutes outside of town.

I know it’s silly to be so turned on by the fact that Marcus can split a tree in half with his bare hands. But I can’t help it.There’s just something about him that makes me feel safe and protected. Like he could shield me from anything.

Sometimes, late at night, I imagine what it would be like to be held in those strong arms of his. To have his calloused hands skim over my skin, tracing every curve and hollow.

Which is ridiculous because Marcus is the last man I should feel anything about. He’s more than twenty years older than me.

I also used to date his son, Axel.

When I emerge from the kitchen, I’m surprised to see that Marcus is no longer sitting at the counter. Instead, he’s moved to a booth by the window, his large frame taking up nearly the entire bench seat.

I set the mug down in front of him and start to pour. “I see you decided to upgrade to a booth.”

“Counter gets uncomfortable after a while.” He shifts slightly, as if demonstrating how the small counter stools don’t quite accommodate his size. “Booth’s better.”

“Of course.” I try not to think about the solid muscle that lies beneath that flannel shirt. “More room to spread out too.”

He just nods, attention already turning to the steaming mug in front of him.

“Well,” I finish pouring his coffee and set the pot down on the table. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

I start to turn away, but my wet shoes choose that exact moment to betray me.

My foot slips on the slick linoleum and I feel myself pitching forward. I let out a yelp and brace myself for impact with the unforgiving floor.

But the impact never comes. Instead, I feel a strong arm wrap around my waist, halting my fall.

“Careful,” Marcus rumbles as he pulls me upright and against his solid chest. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

I swallow hard, suddenly very aware of every place our bodies are touching. The heat of his skin seeps through the damp fabric of my uniform, warming me in ways that have nothing to do with the temperature of the diner.

“Thanks,” I manage to say, my voice coming out breathier than I intend. “Guess I should have changed after my little accident in the kitchen.”

He frowns as he takes in my soaked uniform. “What happened?”

“Oh, you know. Just a little battle with the industrial fridge. Fridge won this round.” I try to laugh it off, but it comes out sounding forced and awkward.

Marcus doesn’t laugh.

Instead, his frown deepens. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, suddenly very aware of the fact that his arm is still wrapped around my waist. “Just a little wet.”

Instantly, I feel my cheeks burn at my unintended innuendo.

“I mean, not that kind of wet, obviously,” I stammer, trying to backtrack. “You know, just like regular wet.”

Something flares in Marcus’s gaze at my words.

His eyes darken and his grip on my waist tightens imperceptibly before he seems to catch himself. Then he clears his throat and loosens his hold, allowing me to step back.

“Right,” he says gruffly. “I should let you get back to work.”

“Yeah. Work. I should...do that.” I bob my head in a jerky nod, my face on fire. “Um, enjoy your coffee.”

I don’t wait for his response. I turn on my heel and make a beeline for the kitchen, moving as fast as my damp shoes will allow. Mortification burns through me as I push through the swinging door and into the blessed solitude of the back room.

Oh my gosh.

I can’t believe I just said that. To Axel’s fucking dad . A man who is off-limits in every possible way.

What the heck is wrong with me?

I groan and thunk my forehead against the cool metal of the industrial fridge, wishing the appliance would just swallow me whole.