Served (Deepwood Mountain Holiday Specials #3)

1. Letty

CHAPTER 1

LETTY

T he lunch rush hits the Mariposa Taqueria like a flash flood, leaving me drowning in orders.

The sizzle of meat hitting the hot griddle fills the cramped quarters in the truck as I battle to keep up. Sweat beads along my hairline, threatening to drip into my eyes as I flip marinated steak with one hand and arrange fresh tortillas with the other.

Damn. Should’ve borrowed a bandana from my brother-in-law, Kyle.

“Two carne asada with extra salsa verde , one pescado with everything, and three quesadillas de pollo !” I chant to myself, keeping track of the orders.

The AC wheezes like it’s on life support and the grill hisses as I plate the quesadillas, the scent of queso and smoky char clinging to my damp tank top. Through the service window, I see four more customers joining the line.

Dios mío.

I’d insisted that Ellie take a couple days off to spend time with baby Serena. “I can handle it,” I’d told my sister, supremely confident. “You and Kyle deserve some family time.”

Well, now I’m paying for that burst of generosity. My fingers fly between chopping cilantro, grilling onions, and pouring horchata . Our customers don’t mess around, especially on Wednesdays, when we park in front of the Deepwood Mountain post office. I think the entire town comes out.

“Order for Griff!” I call through the window, handing a cardboard container to the hefty owner of Nolan’s General Store, who gives me a sympathetic smile.

“Flying solo today, Letty?”

“Ellie’s with the baby. It’s fine, I’ve?—”

A popping sound interrupts me, followed by the unmistakable smell of burning electrical components. The griddle’s light flickers briefly, then goes dark.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, jabbing at the controls. “No, no, no...”

Not today . Not with a line of hungry customers stretching around the lot, and nobody else around to help. I try the stove again. Nothing.

I huff. “Come on, you piece of ? —”

Griff peers in through the window. “Electrical problems?”

“Looks like it.” A wave of panic rises in my chest. “I don’t—I’m not sure what to?—”

“Need to close up till you get it sorted out?” he asks kindly. “I can let everyone know.”

My throat tightens. This is our livelihood. Ellie and I have built this business with our bare hands, our abuela’s recipes, and more stubborn determination than sense. The thought of turning customers away makes my stomach churn.

“I might have to…” I admit, the defeat in my voice unmistakable.

“I’d be happy to take a look, ma’am.”

The voice is deep and smooth, sliding over me like silk. A man steps forward from behind Griff, taking off his ball cap.

Suddenly, my lungs forget how to work.

He’s six-foot-something, with tanned skin, a broad, muscled chest, and shoulders that could easily carry the weight of the sky. His dark hair is cropped short in a military fade, and his grin tilts higher on one side, like he’s sharing a secret with me and only me. But it’s his eyes that really undo me—green as the lush Oregon forests I used to hike through with my late husband, Jason. Since when do men smile like that at food truck cooks?

“I’ve got experience with electrical systems,” he continues. “Former Marine Corps engineer.”

The word “Marine” snags in my chest like a thorn. Jason had been a Marine. A series of images flash through my mind: him, so handsome in his uniform…his smile…the folded flag they handed me at his funeral four years ago.

“I couldn’t possibly ask you to—” I begin.

“You didn’t ask. I offered.” Wow, there’s that grin again.

I hesitate, but the line’s getting restless now: Mathias from the salon is tapping his painted nails against his metallic black phone case, and Hawk and Penny are muttering something about Eden’s mood swings when she’s hangry.

He nods to the line. “Seems like a lot of people are counting on you. I’d love to try to help.”

“Okay,” I finally nod. “You wanna come around the back?”

He walks with the slightest hint of a limp. When he steps up into the truck, I see why—a prosthetic leg in sleek carbon fiber moves effortlessly on his left side, visible when the leg of his jeans shifts up. He catches me looking and simply quirks up an eyebrow—no defensiveness, no embarrassment.

“Afghanistan,” he says matter-of-factly. “Lost my leg just below the knee.”

My breath hitches. Jason died in Afghanistan. I push the thought away.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He shrugs. “Don’t be. I’m still here, and I’ve got all the parts that matter.” His eyes meet mine with a mischievous glint and…holy cow, now my panties are wet.

What the ? —?

He moves through the tight space with surprising grace, crouching down to examine the electrical panel. “Got a screwdriver?”

I hand him one from our toolkit, my fingers shaking. It’s been a long time since a man’s touch didn’t make me flinch, since a stranger’s laugh didn’t feel like a grenade in my chest. But now, I’m trembling for a whole other reason.

He hums quietly as he works, the sound vibrating low in his throat. I stare at the phoenix tattoo peeking out from his collar, wings spread across his shoulders. Instantly, I want to see all of it.

“Felix,” he says suddenly, glancing over his shoulder.

“What?”

“My name. Felix.”

Leticia , I almost say—the name Jason used when he’d touch my cheek and whisper, “Mi vida.” But that name died with him. “Letty.”

“Letty,” he says, and the word sounds like a caress. “That’s pretty.”

“Aha! Here’s your problem,” Felix continues, pulling out a corroded wire. “Very simple fix. Got any electrical tape?”

I find the tape and hand it to him, sparks shooting up my arm when our fingers brush. His eyes flick to mine. Did he feel it too?

In moments, he flips a switch.

I jump as the grill reignites. Felix stands, wiping his hands on his jeans, and the truck almost shrinks around him. His T-shirt strains over his chest, and I force myself to look at the deep fryer…the clock…anything but the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I mumble, reaching for the tortillas. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing.” He leans against the fridge. “You handle crazy busy lunch rushes alone often?”

“Only when I make my sister take some much-needed time off to spend with her husband and baby.”

“Very generous of you.” He watches me shovel carne asada onto the grill. “Well, you’ve sure got some skills.”

The compliment burns hotter than the stove. “Just practice.”

“How long you had the truck?”

“Two years.” Since Ellie dragged me out of bed and announced, “You’re moving to Deepwood and we’re doing this. Together.”

He nods, as if he’s heard the unsaid words. The line builds again, and I get back to work. He stays, silently handing me utensils, refilling salsas, and pouring soft drinks.

By 1:30 PM, the crowd has thinned. Felix orders two carnitas tacos and goes out to sit at one of the empty picnic tables beside the truck.

“On the house, obviously,” I say when I bring them out, with a side of guacamole and chips and a glass of agua de pepino.

“Not necessary.” He reaches for his wallet.

“No, please. I insist.” I touch his arm as I set the plate in front of him. Damn, that muscle is rock hard.

He smiles again. This time, I notice a small scar above his right eyebrow. “Well, all right, but only if you take a seat and rest a few minutes.”

“Fine,” I say, sitting across from him. I find myself smiling back. It feels foreign on my face, like a muscle I haven’t used.

“I’ve been really looking forward to trying your food. All I’ve heard about is the Mariposa Taqueria food truck since I got into town yesterday.”

Felix takes a bite and closes his eyes, making a sound that verges on indecent. My panties flood again at the look of ecstasy on his face.

Get it together, Letty.

“This is incredible,” he says after swallowing. “Seriously. Best I’ve ever had.”

Pride swells in my chest. “Thank you. It was my grandmother’s recipe. Abuela taught us everything my sister and I know about cooking.”

“She’d be proud of you both.” His eyes meet mine again, and something in their depths makes my heart pound.

He continues to eat like a man who takes the time to savor every morsel, licking guac off his lips and fingers carefully. I grip the table’s edge.

He catches me staring and I blush, feeling self-conscious about the way I look—wishing my hair wasn’t sticking to my face in a sweaty mess, that I’d put on lipstick this morning, that my apron wasn’t so greasy.

“What brings you to Deepwood Mountain?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the butterflies having a dance party in my stomach.

“I’m helping Troy and Zoe Lawson with their Memorial Day celebration.” He wipes his mouth, then crumples the napkin in his fist. “I work with a non-profit foundation for vets. You should join the planning committee.”

Memorial Day. Flags on graves. Speeches about heroes. Jason’s name etched in granite and my memory.

“I’m…busy.”

“That’s too bad.” His voice softens. “Could use someone with your talents.”

My ring finger aches where my wedding band used to sit. Four years ago, and sometimes it still feels like yesterday.

Felix studies me, his gaze peeling back layers I thought I’d armor-plated. “May I ask…did you lose someone?”

The question hangs in the air.

“My husband.” The words taste like ash. “Marine. Died overseas.”

His jaw tenses up, a shadow flitting across his face. “I’m truly sorry, Letty.”

“Thank you.” I shake my head, determined to hold back the tears. “He adored the Corps. Would’ve re-enlisted a hundred times.”

Felix is quiet for a long moment. Then he gathers up his empty plate and cup before tossing them in the nearby garbage can together with the used utensils. Then he pulls a card from his wallet.

Second Mission Foundation. Felix Reeves, Outreach Coordinator.

“If you ever change your mind,” he says. “About the committee.”

As I take the card, his fingertips linger on mine.

My heart hammers as he puts his cap back on, tipping it toward me. “Letty, thank you for the wonderful meal and even more wonderful company.” I watch as his broad back retreats down Main Street, my mind in a whirl.

Jason… What the hell am I supposed to do now?