The Mechanic’s Match (The Mountain Man’s Mail-Order Bride #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

A melia

My first thought when I step out of the taxi in Devil’s Peak is that I’ve made a colossal mistake. The second is that my memory could never do this place justice. Rolling mountains frame the horizon, their jagged peaks biting into a sky so blue it looks fake. The crisp air carries the scent of pine and earth, so far removed from the exhaust fumes of Chicago that I feel like I’ve stepped into another world.

Then I remember my suitcase isn’t here, and my phone battery is teetering on the edge of death.

“Great start, Amelia,” I mutter, tugging my carry-on bag higher on my shoulder. Buttercup lets out a long and tortured meow. She and my laptop bag with camera equipment are my only lifeline now. Everything else—clothes, toiletries, the essentials—is stuck in some stranger’s hands, probably halfway to a corporate retreat in Denver.

I inhale deeply, summoning the optimism that fuels my travel blog, Wanderlust and Whimsy . This is an adventure. Not a disaster.

Yet.

I glance down at the hastily scratched address on the sticky note in my hand.

River Auto. 673 Mountain Ave.

My next adventure: researching the mail-order bride trend that’s swept these mountains the last few years…by becoming a mail-order bride.

I’m not sure what to expect, only that the ad gave an address and said good woman needed, no questions asked. Apply in-person.

I cross the street to the local diner, hoping to gather my wits and get some directions since my phone battery won’t last another minute with the maps app open.

The Phantom View Diner, with its hand-painted sign and faded red awning, seems like a good place to regroup. The waitress, an older woman with a no-nonsense vibe, is kind enough to listen to my suitcase woes without rolling her eyes.

“You’re stuck without clothes?” she asks, her brow arching. “Honey, the only place to get clothes around here is by renting ski attire at the lodge. Nearest Walmart is two hours back.”

“Great.” I grunt, adjusting Buttercup’s carrier, feeling totally defeated. “I guess I should just head to River Auto–can you give me directions?”

“Why on earth would you go there?” The waitress narrows her eyes at me.

“It’s the reason I’m here.” I sigh, stirring my lukewarm coffee. “I answered a mail-order bride ad as research for my job actually.”

“Well, no shit.” The waitress smirks. “You’re lookin’ for Fox Miller then,” she says, with a twinkle in her eye like she’s in on a private joke. “He’s the town mechanic. If anyone can help you track down that suitcase, it’s him. His garage is just down the road, hang a left at the stop sign.”

“Mechanic?” I wrinkle my nose at the idea of grease-stained overalls and an oil-slicked demeanor. But I don’t have options, and judging by the smirk still hovering on her lips, this Fox character is either incredibly helpful or incredibly infuriating.

Probably both.

I finish my coffee, leaving the waitress a generous tip and then adjusting Buttercup on my shoulder and head out the door and down main street.

Ten minutes later, the sound of a pneumatic wrench hissing fills the air as I approach the open garage of River Auto. My steps falter when I catch sight of the man inside. He’s bent over the hood of an old truck, his broad shoulders filling out a dark t-shirt that clings to his frame in a way that makes my breath hitch.

His arms flex as he works, muscles rippling beneath sun-kissed skin smudged with grease. A faded ball cap obscures his face, but even from a distance, I can tell he’s not the stereotypical gruff mechanic I was expecting. He’s the embodiment of rugged mountain masculinity, with a hint of danger that sends a thrill skittering down my spine.

He glances up when he hears me approach, his blue eyes locking onto mine with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey.

“You lost?” he asks, his voice deep and gruff.

My heart stops for one long moment. Lost in those eyes, maybe. I shake off the thought and straighten my spine. “I’m...your bride, Amelia.”

He straightens, wiping his hands on a rag, and I can’t help but notice how tall he is. He towers over me, his presence filling the space like a thundercloud. “Come again?”

“I’m here to answer your ad.” I clarify.

His eyes flick up and down my form before a smirk crosses his lips. “Are you kidding? That ad was listed for like two hours before I came to my senses and deleted it.”

“Oh.” My gaze falls to the oil-stained floor.

“Didn’t think anyone would show up anyway…and certainly not anyone like… you.”

My mood falls. I’m probably not his type. My thick hips and soft tummy are probably a turn-off to a fit, muscular, lumberjacked wonder like him. “So…you’re not looking for a mail-order bride?”

His eyes narrow. “Depends.”

“On… what?”

“What made a woman like you answer an ad like that?”

I narrow my eyes. “Well, what made a man like you place an ad like that?”

He grunts. Drops the wrench on the bench next to him and crosses his arms. “Had a weak moment after drinks with the boys. Did something impulsive, regretted it in the morning. Thought that was it but…” he gazes up and down my form again, “here you are.”

“Here I am.” I murmur. “I guess I’ll call a cab to take me back to the airport then–”

He chuckles softly. “Good luck. Can’t believe you convinced one to bring you all the way out here–how much did that ride cost ya?”

“Three-hundred bucks,” I balk.

His eyebrows rise. “Bastards always lookin’ to price gouge a pretty city girl.” I open my mouth to reply but he continues, “You’re lucky I’m the kind of guy that stands by his obligations. Tell you what–you’re welcome to stay until my schedule clears up and then I can bring you into Denver. If you decide you still want to go. Truth be told, I thought any woman would take one look at this place and want to hit the road anyway.”

“What would make you think that?” I ask before thinking.

“Take a look around, Sugar. This isn’t exactly the Ritz, and I’m not exactly fit for public consumption. Prefer to keep to myself more than not.”

“Oh,” I whisper, realizing that he’s probably right. Most women probably would hit the road after one look at this place and the grumpy mountain man that lives here. But I’m not most women. In fact, all I keep thinking that this experience will be even more interesting for my blog…

“Thank you for your kind offer.” I think of my dwindling bank account, another $300 cab ride does not fit into the budget this week. “One other thing–”

“What’s that?”

“My suitcase–it was lost in transit,” I explain, gesturing to my carry-on bag. “I only have this and?—”

“You shittin’ me?” he interrupts. “What am I ‘spose to do about that?”

“Well, maybe you could drop the grumpy act and lend me a t-shirt or something,” I tuck my hair behind my ear, suddenly awkward.

His jaw tightens, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. But instead of snapping back, he tosses the rag onto a workbench and motions for me to follow.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “Let’s see what we can do.”

Fox’s loft is everything I expected it to be—minimalist and utilitarian, with a touch of chaos. Tools and car parts are scattered across the kitchen table, and a single leather couch takes up one corner. A ladder leads up to a small loft sleeping area, where a rumpled quilt suggests he doesn’t bother with things like tidiness.

“This is where you live?” I blurt, then wince at how judgmental it sounds.

“It’s where I sleep,” he corrects, heading to a cabinet. “Living’s not really a priority.”

I bite back a retort, my curiosity piqued. “Why not?”

He ignores me, pulling out a bottle of water and tossing it my way. I catch it awkwardly, the weight of his gaze lingering on me a moment longer than necessary.

“Tell me about this suitcase,” he says, leaning against the counter.

I explain the mix-up in detail, trying to keep my voice steady despite the way his presence seems to short-circuit my brain. When I finish, he nods slowly, his expression unreadable.

“I’ll make a few calls,” he says. “In the meantime, guess you’re stuck with me.”

“Stuck with you, huh?”

He smirks, the expression sending a jolt of heat through me. “Unless you’d rather sleep in the diner. Lodge is booked full a year in advance no matter what season.”

Before I can answer Buttercup lets out a long, drawn out meow.

“What the hell was that?” he growls.

“Oh–meet Buttercup,” I smile sweetly, setting my pet carry-on on the floor and unzipping the door.

“Excuse me?” Fox grits, laser eyes on my fluffy princess. “Jet is not going to like this.”

“Jet?” I ask.

“My husky. He spends the day outside but comes in every night.”

“Oh.” My eyes dart around the small loft. “Buttercup isn’t used to dogs.”

“And Jet isn’t used to…pussies.” His eyes flick from my cat and up my form to land on my eyes.

“Oh–well, I guess I could keep her locked in the bathroom when he’s in the house–”

“No, no, it’s fine. He’s a good boy. I’m sure they’ll get along. They’ll just need some time to adjust.”

“Well, guess that makes two of us.” I hum, butterflies flittering around in my gut under Fox’s hard stare.

My rugged new roommate takes the next few minutes to give me a tour. Fox’s loft is as inhospitable as he is, and his “rules” are ridiculous.

“Don’t touch my tools,” he says, pointing to the workbench. “Don’t move my stuff. And for the love of God, don’t rearrange anything.”

“Don’t worry,” I shoot back. “I wouldn’t dream of ruining your meticulously curated décor.”

He raises an eyebrow, but a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. “Good. Here’s a flannel you can wear until we get your suitcase back.”

“Thanks,” I catch the navy and yellow flannel he tosses at me, a rush of his heady, masculine scent washing over me. I can’t help but bring the fabric to my nose and inhale softly. The next few days are going to be interesting and I’m already anxious to share every weird moment of it with my followers.

An hour later, Fox is settled at the kitchen table–his makeshift workbench surrounded with tools and car parts–and I curl up on the couch with my laptop and Buttercup, trying to draft a blog post about the town. But my thoughts keep drifting to Fox. His blunt honesty and gruff demeanor are infuriating, but there’s something about him that intrigues me.

When I glance over at him, he’s hunched over, broad shoulders flexing under his shirt, his hands deftly repairing something I can’t identify. The soft glow of the lamp highlights the strong lines of his face, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

“Take a picture,” he says without looking up. “It’ll last longer.”

Flustered, I snap my gaze back to my laptop. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” he mutters, and I hear the smirk in his voice.

“Do you always keep it so cold in here?” I venture to ask.

“Are you always so whiny, City Girl?” he finally turns, one eyebrow arched.

I shoot him a glare, curling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “It’s gonna be hard to type with gloves on…”

“You’ll adapt, I have faith in you.”

I grunt at the unbearable man sitting across the impossibly small room from me. He may be the sexiest creature I’ve ever laid eyes on, but he’s also the most infuriating.

The tension between us is unbearable. Every interaction is charged, every glance a spark waiting to ignite. He teases me relentlessly about my blogging career, calling me “Princess” and “City Girl” with a sardonic grin every chance he gets. I fire back with quips about his caveman tendencies, earning a few low chuckles that make my stomach flutter.

But it’s not just the banter. It’s the way he moves, the way his voice dips when he speaks to me, the way his eyes linger a little too long. It’s the way he says my name, like a challenge and a promise all at once.

“So what are you really doing here, Amelia?” he aks, his voice low.

I meet his eyes, my heart pounding. “I told you earlier. Research for my blog.”

“Research,” he repeats, his tone skeptical. “Or running from something?”

The question catches me off guard, and for a moment, I can’t answer. “W-what makes you say that?”

“Everyone up here is.” He leans closer, his presence overwhelming. “Whatever it is,” he says, his voice a rough whisper, “you won’t find it here. But you might find something better.”

I swallow hard, the intensity in his gaze stealing my breath. This man, this gruff, infuriating man, is going to be the end of me.

And I think I might like it.