Kissing the Boss (Curvy Girls of Whitetail Falls #4)

Chapter 1 – Cassandra

Of course my car dies in the middle of a fairy tale.

Steam billows from under the hood as I coast to a stop, right in the heart of Acorn Circle where the entire town of Whitetail Falls has gathered for the Fall Festival.

Through my fogging windshield, I watch families strolling past vendor booths draped in twinkling lights, couples sharing caramel apples, children clutching balloon animals.

"No, no, no." I smack the steering wheel. "Not today. Please not today."

The engine gives one last pathetic wheeze and falls silent.

Perfect. My fresh start in a new town, and I'm blocking traffic in front of what looks like the entire population.

A knock on my window makes me jump. An elderly woman in a hand-knit pumpkin sweater peers at me with concern. Behind her, a small crowd is gathering.

I roll down the window manually and force a smile. "Hi. Sorry. Just a little car trouble."

"Oh, honey, you're right in the middle of everything!" She glances back at the growing bottleneck of festival-goers trying to navigate around my smoking car. "Let me call Jonathan for you. He'll have you sorted in no time."

Before I can ask who Jonathan is, she's already on her phone, chatting away like we're old friends. This is small-town life, I remind myself. The very reason I wanted to move here.

Well, that and the job that starts tomorrow. The job I'll miss if I can't get my car fixed.

Ten minutes later, I'm standing beside my deceased vehicle, trying to look like I have some idea what I'm staring at under the hood. The autumn air nips at my cheeks, carrying the scent of cinnamon donuts and apple cider from the festival booths.

I'm so focused on pretending to understand engines that I don't hear the tow truck arrive until a deep voice speaks behind me.

"Having a rough day?"

I spin around and nearly swallow my tongue.

The man standing there looks like he stepped out of a lumberjack calendar, the really good kind that hangs in break rooms and makes productivity plummet.

Worn jeans sit low on narrow hips. A grey t-shirt stretches across broad shoulders and a chest that clearly sees manual labor.

Dark hair peeks out from under a cap, and his jaw sports the kind of stubble that would feel delicious against skin.

But it's his eyes that stop my brain from functioning—grey-blue like storm clouds.

"That obvious?" I manage.

His lips twitch. "The smoke was a clue."

"Right. The smoke." I tuck a curl behind my ear, acutely aware that I'm wearing my ratty road-trip clothes and no makeup. "I don't suppose you could just... make it stop doing that?"

"Afraid it's not that simple." He moves past me to look under the hood, bringing with him the scent of motor oil. "Jonathan. I own the garage on Pine Street."

"Cassandra Green. I own the car that's ruining everyone's festival."

This time he does smile, just a quick flash that transforms his whole face. "Could be worse. Last year someone's float caught fire during the parade. This is barely a inconvenience."

"Somehow that doesn't make me feel better about blocking traffic."

He glances at the crowd navigating around us. "Small town. They're used to working around obstacles. Mrs. Hayworth there?" He nods toward a woman power-walking past with a massive pumpkin. "She once parallel parked around a moose."

A laugh bubbles up despite my mortification. "A moose?"

"Wandered into town last spring. Decided the parking spot in front of the post office was the perfect place for a nap."

"And she just... parked around it?"

"Nothing stops Mrs. Hayworth from her appointed rounds." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Not rain, not snow, not massive woodland creatures."

The tension in my chest eases slightly. "You're making that up."

"Scout's honor." He holds up three fingers before his attention returns to my engine. "Your water pump's shot, I'll need to tow this back to the shop."

"Is it fixable?"

"Everything's fixable." He straightens, wiping his hands on a rag from his back pocket. "Question is whether it's worth fixing."

Our eyes meet and hold, the festival noise fading to white noise around us.

"I think it is," I say softly. "Worth fixing, I mean. It got me this far."

His gaze drops to my lips for a fraction of a second before he steps back, clearing his throat. "Let me hook it up. You can ride in the truck."

I watch him work, efficient and confident, muscles flexing as he secures the tow chains.

"All set." He opens the passenger door of his truck for me, a gesture that seems automatic rather than calculated. "Watch your step."

I need the boost to climb into the lifted truck, and his hand on my elbow sends electricity shooting up my arm. The cab smells like coffee and leather, with a pine air freshener hanging from the mirror.

Jonathan swings into the driver's seat with easy grace. In the enclosed space, his presence is overwhelming.

"First time in Whitetail Falls?" he asks as we navigate slowly through the festival crowd.

"That obvious too?"

"You've got that shell-shocked look tourists get when they see the whole town turns out for festivals." He waves at someone, who waves back enthusiastically. "Plus, locals know to avoid Acorn Circle during peak festival hours."

"Noted for next time." I watch the town roll past, storefronts with whimsical names, sidewalks lined with pumpkins and corn stalks, strings of lights connecting buildings like golden webs. "It's even prettier than the website made it look."

"You researched us?"

Heat climbs my neck. "I'm starting a new job tomorrow. Seemed smart to know about the town."

"What kind of work?"

"Bookkeeping. Found the perfect position online, small business, flexible hours, decent pay." I fidget with my purse strap. "Plus, I needed a change. Fresh start, you know?"

Something flickers across his face. "Yeah, I know."

We drive in comfortable silence down tree-lined streets where leaves spiral down like confetti. Every house sports fall decorations—wreaths and scarecrows and those inflatable lawn decorations that seem to multiply each year.

"Is your garage a family business?" I ask as we turn onto Pine Street.

"Third generation. My grandfather started it back when this was all logging country." Pride threads through his voice. "Kept us afloat through recessions, tech booms, everything."

"That's amazing. Having those kind of roots."

He glances at me, surprised. "Most people think it's boring. Staying in the same place your whole life."

"Are you kidding? That's the dream. Knowing where you belong, having history somewhere." I bite my lip, realizing I've revealed too much. "Sorry. I babble when I'm nervous."

"Why are you nervous?"

Because you're gorgeous and you smell amazing and your smile makes me forget about my broken car and questionable life choices.

"New town, broken car, the usual." I gesture vaguely. "Plus, I just trauma-dumped about belonging on a stranger."

"We're not strangers. I know your car has a busted water pump and you research towns before moving to them." His lips quirk. "And you laugh at my terrible moose jokes."

"They weren't terrible."

"They were pretty bad."

"Okay, they were awful. But you tell them well."

He grins fully then, and my heart does a ridiculous skip-rope routine in my chest.

His garage is a tidy building with three bays and an office attached to the side. Unlike the festival chaos we left behind, this has the organized calm of a well-run business. Two mechanics work on cars in the bays, classic rock playing from a radio.

Jonathan backs my car into an empty bay with practiced ease. "Come on. I'll get you set up in the office while I write up the estimate."

The office smells like coffee and WD-40, with a desk scattered with invoices and a coffee maker that's seen better days. I set my purse on the desk and pull out my phone to check the time.

"What are you doing?" Jonathan asks from the doorway.

"Making sure I have enough battery to call about a rental car." I unzip my bag, hunting for my charger. "Is there an outlet I could use?"

He points to the power strip beside the desk. "Help yourself."

I bend to plug in my phone, then straighten to find him staring at me with an odd expression. "Everything okay?"

"You're C. Green," he says slowly.

"Yes? Cassandra Green. I told you that."

His face does something complicated, like surprise shifting to understanding, then settling into careful blankness. "The bookkeeper I hired last week. To start tomorrow."

The words hit like cold water. "You're... you're Cox. As in Cox Auto Repair. As in my new boss."

"Yeah." The single word comes out rough. He takes a step back, physically distancing himself. "I am."

The warm, teasing man from minutes ago vanishes. In his place stands someone rigid and professional, his jaw tight, hands shoved in his pockets. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

"I didn't realize," I stammer. "I mean, obviously I knew the name, but I didn't connect..."

"It's fine." But his tone suggests it's anything but fine. "I'll get that estimate written up. You start at eight tomorrow."

He turns to leave, shoulders stiff, and I feel the loss of his warmth like a physical ache. "Jonathan—"

"Mr. Cox is fine. During business hours." He doesn't look back. "There's coffee in the break room if you want some."

The door closes behind him, and I sink into the desk chair, my legs suddenly shaky.

Ten minutes ago, he was flirting with me. Making me laugh. Looking at me like...

Like I wasn't his employee.

Through the window, I watch him talking to one of the mechanics, gesturing at my car. He's all business now, the easy smile gone, replaced by professional distance.

This is why I don't believe in fairy tales anymore. Because just when you think you've found something magical, reality comes crashing down.

My phone buzzes with a welcome message from the Whitetail Falls community board. "Welcome to our enchanted little town!" it reads. "Where everyone belongs."

I stare at the message, then at my new boss through the window, the man whose smile made me forget my own name, who's now determined to pretend those sparks between us never existed.

My fresh start just got a lot more complicated.

But as Jonathan glances through the window and our eyes meet for one electric second before he looks away, I realize the real problem isn't that he's my boss.

It's that despite everything, I still want to know what his stubble feels like against my skin.

This is definitely not the fairy tale I signed up for.