Ignited By My Mate (Twisted Oak Pack: First Responders #4)

Chapter 1

ONE

Lark

There’s something magical about the way pine tree branches sway gently in the breeze. It’s like they’re dancing, welcoming me to this small town, and I smile as I pull my little hatchback onto the gravel road that leads into the small town of Twisted Oak.

I crack the window open and breathe deep, hoping the fresh air will wash away months—years, really—of stress. It’s been five years since I’ve taken a real vacation.

Not a long weekend. Not a “working retreat.” A full, guilt-free, zero-inbox, no-expectations vacation. And I’ve earned this after five years of back-to-back campaigns, executive-level meetings, and twelve-hour days in the marketing world.

More like crawled across broken glass for it.

I clutch the steering wheel a little tighter as my car bounces along the gravel road leading into Twisted Oak, the small mountain town I found almost by accident on a late-night internet spiral six months ago. The photos online were too perfect—rolling green hills, log cabins nestled in trees, a town square that looked like something out of a Christmas card. It didn’t feel real.

But I booked it anyway. A one-week solo escape in the middle of nowhere. No email. No meetings. No constant Slack notifications buzzing in my skull. Just me, a stack of unread paperbacks, and a cozy rental cabin in the woods.

I follow the GPS’s cheery voice until it announces, “You’ve arrived at your destination.”

I blink at the screen.

“No, I haven’t,” I mutter, squinting through the windshield.

Then at the scene in front of me.

This… can’t be right.

I put the car in park and climb out, my sandals crunching against loose gravel. The fresh air slaps me in the face—in a good way. But the feeling doesn't last as I stare at the building in front of me.

Well, what’s left of it , anyway.

It’s… destroyed.

The cabin I rented— paid for in full , thank you very much—is half charred. The front porch is scorched black. The left side of the roof is caved in like someone crushed it with a giant fist. The windows are boarded up. Smoke stains trail up the siding like claw marks. A length of yellow caution tape flutters in the breeze, and a weather-worn sign reads: UNSAFE – DO NOT ENTER.

I stare at the charred mess, my jaw slowly dropping open. This is supposed to be my vacation spot. The place I spent months daydreaming about while pushing ad deadlines and sitting through presentations about “synergistic market opportunities.” I paid in full. I bought new hiking boots. I made a Pinterest board for crying out loud.

“What the actual hell?” I whisper.

I snatch my phone from the cupholder, fingers trembling as I scroll through emails. My booking confirmation is right there—Everpine Cabins, unit four, reservation confirmed. No cancellations. No follow-up notices. Definitely no “Hey, sorry your cabin caught fire” email.

I tap the contact number. Straight to voicemail.

I try again. And again. Still nothing.

Leaning against the car, I close my eyes and press my forehead to the warm metal roof.

This was supposed to be the week I reset. Reconnect with myself. Figure out what the hell I want from life now I’ve finally admitted I don’t want to climb any more corporate ladders. My hands are still sore from gripping the last one too tightly. I didn’t come here to be stressed.

I breathe deeply. One. Two. Three.

Okay, so the cabin’s a no-go. But I’m not totally screwed. I can find a local café or bar, get some Wi-Fi, find another place to stay. It’s a small town. People are usually friendly in small towns, right?

Back in the car, I crank the A/C and start back to what passes for the center of Twisted Oak. The town is nestled in a valley, a cluster of buildings that look like they were hand-carved from cedar and good intentions. I spot a gas station that looks like it used to be an old cabin. A carved wooden bear holds a welcome sign like he means it.

It’s adorable. And exactly what I need.

I park, grab my purse, and head inside.

The door chimes as I enter, and I’m hit with a blast of cool air and the smell of coffee and motor oil. The inside looks like a rustic fever dream—wooden shelves stacked with everything from toilet paper to honeycomb candy, postcards of deer and lakes, and a menu above the counter boasting homemade chili and daily pie specials.

I grab the largest iced coffee they sell and bring it to the counter. The cashier—a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a beehive of silver hair—smiles at me.

“Rough morning, hon?”

“You could say that,” I mutter, handing over a five. “I drove twelve hours to stay at a cabin that apparently burned down. Nobody told me. Now I’ve got no place to stay and no backup plan.”

She winces. “You must’ve booked one of the Everpine cabins. Fire tore through half of that property last week. Real mess. Nobody hurt, thank God, but most of the units are unusable.”

“Yeah, that would’ve been nice to know before I got here,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

She passes me my change. “You try calling the owner?”

“Voicemail,” I say bitterly. “I think I’ve been ghosted. By a building.”

She hums sympathetically. “There’s a motel down the road if you’re desperate. Or maybe talk to the sheriff. He might know someone renting a room. Or one of the fire guys. They’ve been all over that property since the blaze.”

“The fire guys?”

She nods toward the bulletin board by the window, where a flyer reads TWISTED OAK VOLUNTEER FIREHOUSE PANCAKE brEAKFAST – EVERY FIRST SATURDAY . “Good men. Sweet as pie. Maybe they can help.”

“Right. Because nothing says ‘relaxing vacation’ like chasing down a firefighter in the middle of a crisis,” I deadpan.

The woman chuckles. “You might be surprised, hon. This town has a way of working things out.”

“Thanks,” I say, gathering my things.

I step back outside with my iced coffee in hand, shielding my eyes from the midday sun. The heat curls off the pavement in shimmering waves, but the mountain breeze softens it. I glance around the quiet town, noting the low hum of life—people chatting on porches, a kid riding by on a bike with a dog chasing behind him, wind chimes singing on a nearby balcony.

It’s peaceful here. Slow.

I just need a place to sleep and time to regroup.

I sit on the hood of my car, sipping my drink, scrolling through my phone for local motels, when I feel the strangest thing. Like someone’s watching me.

Not in a creepy way. More like… something electric brushing over my skin.

I look up, and that’s when I see him.

He’s standing by the pump, filling a pickup truck the color of storm clouds. Broad shoulders, dark hair tousled like he ran a hand through it too many times, and a face that makes my mouth go dry. He’s wearing navy work pants and a black T-shirt with the words TWISTED OAK FIRE DEPARTMENT across the chest, and he’s staring at me like I’ve just stepped out of his favorite dream.

And okay—he’s hot. Like, firefighter calendar hot. But there’s something more. Something intense. The way he’s looking at me is… unnerving.

Then he starts walking toward me.

No, not walking. Stalking. Like a predator zeroed in on prey.

My heart skips. Not from fear. From something else entirely.

He stops a few feet away, voice low and rough. “Are you okay?”

I blink at him. “Do I not look okay?”

He studies me, and I swear his eyes flash gold for half a second. “Not really. You look like your world just caught fire.”

I huff a laugh. “Close. My vacation cabin did. Burned to the ground. Apparently, no one thought to cancel my reservation.”

Understanding dawns on his features. “Everpine?”

“Yeah.”

“I was on that call,” he says, voice softer now. “We got there as fast as we could. Sorry no one let you know.”

I shrug, trying not to care too much. “Guess I’ll just… sleep in my car or something. Embrace the pioneer spirit.”

He steps a little closer, and suddenly, I can smell him—smoke and pine and something darker, richer. The scent curls around me, and for some reason, I want to lean into it.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“What?”

“Sleep in your car. Look, I know we just met, but… let me help you.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

His throat bobs as he swallows, gaze locking on mine like it costs him something. “Because I think you’re the reason I haven’t been able to sleep right in years.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He holds up a hand. “I know that sounds crazy, and I swear I’ll explain. But… there’s a diner across the street. Let me buy you lunch. We can talk. I can help you find a place to stay.”

I hesitate.

I don’t usually go to lunch with strange men I meet in gas station parking lots. Especially not ones who speak in cryptic, soulmate-sounding riddles. But something about the way he’s looking at me… doesn’t feel strange.

It feels inevitable.

“I’m Lark,” I say finally, sliding off the hood of my car.

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Harris.”

He steps back and gestures to the crosswalk. “Come on. You look like you could use a real meal and someone who knows this town.”

As we cross the street together, I feel it again—that quiet sense of fate curling under my ribs like a secret.

I don’t know what the hell is happening.

But I think I just met the man who’s going to change everything.