Mountain Mechanic (Tinsel & Timber #6)

Chapter 1

DEMI

Christmas was getting on my nerves.

I was behind the wheel of a food truck wrapped in twinkling lights and inflatable snowmen, listening to Mariah Carey wail for the ninetieth time through tinny speakers.

Behind me were trays of cinnamon rolls, tubs of icing, and everything I needed for a weekend of selling gourmet baked goods at some small-town festival.

Almost there. I just needed to get the truck to the fairgrounds, park, and let one of the organizers give me a ride back to the inn. Hot shower. Stretchy pants. A couple hours on my laptop. My kind of holiday cheer.

Cars flew past me on the highway—one cutting me off as I approached the exit into Wildwood Valley, North Carolina. Suddenly, the truck grumbled. Fifty miles per hour. Forty-nine. Forty-eight.

“Oh, come on.”

I pumped the brakes and coasted down the ramp. Small mountain town. Slower speeds. Quaint vibes. No cliffs involved…right?

Through the speakers, Mariah was still begging for someone to hold her tight. Join the club, girl. But my current love affair was with my career. Mr. Right—and even Mr. Right Now—could wait until after I conquered the tech world.

“Let’s go,” I muttered as the red sedan in front of me—complete with reindeer antlers—hesitated through a third opening in traffic.

In my rearview mirror loomed a monster of a truck. Black. Oversized. The kind you’d expect in an action movie chase scene, not in a quaint mountain village. A muscled forearm rested on its open window. In fifty-degree weather. Because of course it did.

Finally, the antlered sedan darted out, and I hit the gas. The food truck shuddered, reconsidered its life choices, then lurched forward. Barely.

Twelve miles per hour. Pedal to the floor. The monstrous truck closing in. Perfect. Exactly the kind of Christmas magic I needed.

The engine coughed. Once. Twice. Then died.

“No. No, no, no.” I jammed the gas. Nothing. The steering wheel locked as I wrestled the truck toward the shoulder, which wasn’t much of a shoulder at all. Just gravel and a drop into pine forest.

I got the front passenger-side wheel off the road before the engine gave up completely, leaving the back end jutting into traffic. Behind me, brakes squealed.

The monster truck stopped inches from my bumper. Then a minivan. Then a Subaru with a Christmas tree strapped to its roof. Instant holiday gridlock.

“Perfect,” I whispered. “This is fine. Everything’s fine.”

Mariah still hadn’t shut up. I’d tried to kill the sound system more times than I could count. It was hardwired into the light display, which meant I was as stuck with her as I was with this truck.

A horn blared. Then another.

The driver of the monster truck climbed out—boots, jeans, flannel, forearms. The kind of man who looked like he was born knowing how to fix engines and split firewood.

He walked up to my window and knocked—firm, not angry.

I cranked it down. It was an old-fashioned manual kind, so that meant it took a while.

“You okay?” His voice was deep, calm, steady.

“Great,” I said brightly. “Just thought I’d stop here and enjoy the view.”

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

“Your view’s blocking traffic,” he said.

“I noticed.”

He didn’t glance back at the growing line of cars. “What happened?”

“It just…died. I was going twelve miles an hour, which was apparently too much to ask.”

“How long since anyone checked the engine?”

I blinked. “Checked it for what?”

That smile again—small, disarming. “Oil. Coolant. The basics.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, nobody’s looked under the hood since, like…the previous century.”

“Which previous century?”

I laughed despite myself. “Good question.”

“I’m Torch,” he said. “Restore cars up the mountain. Used to be a mechanic.”

“Used to be?”

“Long story.” He nodded at the truck. “Pop the hood.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I do. The town mechanic’s gone for the weekend. It’s me or a mob of angry festival-goers.”

I sighed. “Hood release is somewhere…”

“Left side. Under the steering column.”

I found it. The hood popped. Torch disappeared around front, muttering over the unrelenting sound of Mariah.

Thirty seconds later, he reappeared. “When’s the last time this had a checkup?”

“I’ll go with…never?”

“Thought so.” He raked a hand through his hair, confirming why it looked that way. “You overheated. Lucky it didn’t seize.”

“So it’s dead?”

“Not dead. Just angry.” He studied the road ahead. “I can try to nudge it up the mountain to my place—garage, tools, heat. Unless you want to spend the afternoon explaining this to the sheriff.”

I glanced in the mirror. The traffic jam stretched to the horizon.

“Fine,” I said. “You have a deal.”

He jogged back to his truck and moved it off into the grass. Cars moved up to fill in the space, but they were still blocked. He grabbed a jug and funnel and rushed back, immediately getting to work.

While he was doing all that, I stepped out onto the grass, hugging my cardigan. Up close, the food truck looked worse. Glittery Just Roll with It sign, inflatable snowmen, cartoon cinnamon rolls wearing Santa hats. A full-on festive disaster.

“Nice setup,” Torch called.

“Not mine.”

“Yeah, figured. You look more like a Tesla driver.”

“Prius. Usually, I just Uber.”

“City girl.”

“Silicon Valley,” I corrected. “UX designer for—”

The engine roared to life, cutting me off…and doubling Mariah’s volume.

Torch slammed the hood shut. “That’ll hold for now. Let’s move while it’s still running.”

“How far’s your place?”

“Two miles. Mountain road.” He eyed me. “You ever drive something this size?”

“I got it here from my parents’ house in Charlotte.”

“On the highway. These mountain switchbacks and bad brakes don't mix well. Keys.”

He didn’t bark it—just said it like a man used to being obeyed. I dropped the keys into his palm. My fingers brushed his. They were warm, callused, and unfairly nice.

“Passenger seat,” he said, that half-smile returning. “Unless you feel like jogging.”

I climbed in while he adjusted the seat. The cab shrank around him.

He eased the truck back onto the road, calm and confident, while cars flowed around us. One woman even waved, like we were leading a parade.

“So,” he said as the mountain rose ahead. “Silicon Valley to Wildwood Valley. Quite a trip.”

“Just for the weekend. My parents run a cinnamon roll business. They’re double-booked right now, so they guilted me into covering.”

“Not a fan of Christmas?”

“It’s fine. I’m just…busy. Launch deadlines. Developers. Meetings. Christmas is another line on the calendar.”

He was quiet for a beat, steering through a curve like he’d been born on one.

“What about you?” I asked. “Torch isn’t exactly a birth certificate name.”

“Nickname. High school. Stuck.”

“Let me guess. You went through a pyromaniac phase?”

“Something like that.” His grin was quick. “My real name’s worse.”

“Now I have to know.”

“Not happening.”

The engine clanked in protest. Torch murmured, “Come on, baby. Just a little farther.”

“You talk to trucks?”

“They listen better than people.”

A few minutes later, the temperature gauge spiked. He pulled off at a scenic overlook and killed the engine. Silence—except Mariah.

He frowned at the stereo. “How is that still playing?”

“It’s cursed. I’ve accepted it.”

He leaned under the dash, tugged a wire—and blessed silence filled the cab. I might’ve actually sighed in relief.

"There's a secondary power wire running to the light controller," he said, sitting back. "Someone rigged it so the stereo runs off the same power system as the lights. Probably thought it was clever."

“It’s torture.”

“Agreed.” He rolled down the window, pine-scented air flooding in. “We’ll let it cool for ten minutes.”

I pulled out my phone. One bar of service. Fifteen texts from my team lead asking about wireframes. Three emails flagged urgent. A calendar reminder that I had a standup meeting Monday morning at nine.

“You working?” Torch asked.

“Just checking in.”

“It’s Friday afternoon.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Let me guess. Product launch. Deadlines. Team depending on you.”

I squinted at him. “You’re judging.”

“Observing.” He draped an arm over the wheel, perfectly relaxed. “So you make websites work?”

I bristled. “It’s way more complicated than that.”

“Sure it is.” No sarcasm—just easy acceptance that made me want to prove him wrong.

“What about you? Besides rescuing stranded food trucks?”

“I restore classic cars. Sixties, seventies. Buy, fix, sell.”

“Sounds peaceful.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here.” He looked out the window, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Before I could ask, he turned the key. The truck groaned, caught, and we were moving again. Slowly. Two more stops later, the sky was violet and we turned onto a gravel road marked Private Property.

“This is you?” I asked.

“End of the road. Literally.”

The trees opened to a clearing—and my jaw dropped.

His “place” was a glass-walled A-frame. White lights traced the roofline, garland wrapped the porch rails, and a real wreath—pine and cedar, not plastic—hung on the door. Behind it, a garage glowed with vintage neon signs and chrome reflections.

It was…perfect.

Torch parked and cut the engine. Quiet. Finally.

“Welcome to my place,” he said.