Chapter 2
TORCH
This cabin was built for a family. Not for one guy eating microwaved dinners in front of the TV.
The sofa should've had kids sprawled across it, their mom leaning against me and the smell of popcorn in the air. That was the picture I'd carried in my head for years, even if I'd never said it out loud.
And now, standing beside Demi, that old fantasy flickered to life.
She was the woman on the other end of the couch—barefoot, wearing flannel pajamas, curves tucked under a blanket.
She was everything I'd always told myself I'd find someday—beautiful, sharp, and independent enough to keep me on my toes.
"You had help decorating this place," she said, breaking through the thought.
She shrugged out of her coat, and the first thing I noticed was the bright green Christmas sweater hugging her curves. There was a word stretched across her chest, but I couldn't read it from this angle.
When she turned and caught me staring, her mouth curved. Busted.
Merry, the sweater read.
I cleared my throat and dragged my gaze to the cabin's open floor plan. "Nope. Did it all myself."
Her eyebrows shot up. "You did this?"
I frowned. "That surprise you?"
"Yeah," she said slowly, her lips twitching. "It's just—I don't exactly have a lot of experience with guys like you. You don't strike me as the type to care about…throw pillows and Christmas wreaths."
"Guys like me?" I grabbed her overnight bag from where she'd left it by the door.
"You know. Flannel. Trucks. Probably have an axe somewhere."
"Two axes, actually."
She laughed—soft and unexpected. The sound did something dangerous to my chest.
I carried her bag to the leather armchair by the fireplace, setting it down. She was watching me with curious eyes, probably wondering why I was playing bellhop when she was just here for a couple of hours while I fixed her truck.
The truth was, I didn't know either. It just felt wrong to leave her bag sitting by the door like she wasn't welcome.
"Bathroom's down that hall if you need it," I said, gesturing to the left. "Kitchen's obviously right there. Make yourself comfortable while I work on the truck."
She moved toward the fireplace, studying the photos on the mantle. Her fingers hovered over the frame holding a picture of me and my parents from five Christmases ago.
"Your folks?" she asked.
"Yeah. They're in Florida now. Retired."
"They know you're up here alone?"
"They know." I moved to the fireplace, started arranging kindling. I needed something to do with my hands. "They worry, but they get it."
"Get what?"
"That I needed space. Quiet. A place to figure out what I actually wanted instead of what everyone expected."
She was silent while I built the fire, and I could feel her watching me. When I struck the match and the kindling caught, orange light flickered across her face. She was still shivering in that thin cardigan despite the sweater underneath.
The fire took hold, flames climbing. I stood, brushing my hands on my jeans. "That'll warm things up. I should get started on the truck before it gets too dark—"
"Wait." She stepped closer, and I caught a hint of something sweet—vanilla, maybe. "Have you eaten?"
I hadn't. I'd been heading into town for supplies when I got stuck behind her disaster of a food truck.
"I'm fine,” I said.
"That's not what I asked."
Her eyes were direct, challenging. I liked that she didn't back down.
"No," I admitted. "I haven't eaten."
"Then let me make you lunch. As a thank-you."
"You don't need to—"
"I want to." She crossed her arms, which only emphasized the curves her sweater was doing a terrible job of hiding.
"Besides, I need to practice. I'm supposed to be running a food truck tomorrow, and I haven't cooked anything in…
" She paused, thinking. "Actually, I can't remember the last time I cooked. "
That made me smile. "My kitchen's yours."
She moved toward the kitchen island like she belonged there, opening cabinets and drawers with the focused determination of someone on a mission. "Where are your pots?"
"Left of the stove."
"Cutting board?"
"Drawer under the island."
"Olive oil?"
"Pantry. Second shelf."
After the fifth question, I realized I wasn't leaving. I pulled out a barstool and sat down, watching her move through my space like she was solving a puzzle.
"You don't have to stay," she said, glancing over her shoulder.
"I know."
But I didn't move. Couldn't. Something about watching her in my kitchen felt right in a way I didn't want to examine too closely.
She started pulling things out with confident determination that didn't quite match her uncertain movements. Eggs, cheese, bread, a tomato… She cracked an egg one-handed—impressive—then had to fish a piece of shell out of the bowl.
"So," I said, leaning forward on my elbows. "UX designer. What's that actually mean?"
"I make software easy to use. I figure out how people interact with technology and remove the frustrating parts." She whisked the eggs harder than necessary. "Like when you click a button and nothing happens, or you can't find what you're looking for. I fix that."
"Important work."
She shot me a look. "You sound skeptical."
"Not skeptical. Just different from what I do. I work with my hands. You work with…screens."
"Screens that run the world." But she was smiling. "Where's your whisk?"
"Drawer by the sink."
She found it and went back to beating the eggs. "What about you? You said you used to be a mechanic. Why 'used to be'?"
I watched her pour the eggs into the pan, noting the way she bit her lip in concentration. "Worked at a shop in Charlotte for fifteen years. Good job. Steady paycheck. But it wasn't…mine, you know? I was fixing everyone else's problems, living everyone else's schedule."
"So you left."
"My grandmother died three years ago and left me more than I expected.
Enough to buy this land, build this place, and walk away from the noise.
" I paused, remembering those first months up here—the silence that had felt suffocating until it didn't. “I spent fifteen years fixing other people's problems. Figured it was time to fix my own life. "
She flipped the omelet—almost gracefully. "That's brave."
"Or stupid."
"No." She looked at me then, really looked, and something passed between us that made my pulse kick up. "It's brave. Most people don't have the guts to walk away from steady for uncertain."
"Says the woman who left her parents' business to conquer Silicon Valley."
She laughed, turning back to the stove. "That's different. I was running toward something, not away from it."
"Same thing, different direction."
She plated the food—grilled cheese and an omelet that actually looked decent—and brought both plates to the island. Then she sat down beside me, close enough that our knees almost touched.
The food was simple but good. Better than I expected. We ate in comfortable silence for a minute before she spoke.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"The Christmas decorations. The stockings on the mantel." She gestured with her fork toward the fireplace. "There's only one name. Yours."
I set down my fork, suddenly uncomfortable. I looked at the mantle where my stocking hung beside three empty ones. I'd put them up two weeks ago, same as every year.
"Optimism," I said quietly. "Or stupidity. Haven't figured out which yet."
"What do you mean?"
I met her eyes. "I built this place for a family I don't have yet. Decorated it for people who aren't here. Every year, I tell myself that maybe this is the year things change. I'll meet someone. That those empty stockings will have names on them by next Christmas."
The vulnerability in my own voice surprised me. I didn't talk about this. Not to anyone.
But Demi didn't look away. Didn't laugh or offer empty reassurances. She just held my gaze, something soft and understanding in her expression.
"I think it's nice," she said finally. "That you're ready. That you built something worth sharing even before you found someone to share it with."
The air between us shifted. Thickened. Her eyes dropped to my mouth before darting away, color rising in her cheeks.
I stood abruptly, grabbing both plates. I needed distance before I did something stupid—like close the space between us and find out if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.
"I should check on the truck." My voice came out rougher than intended. "Before I lose the light."
She nodded, standing too. "Right. And then you can drive me to the inn. I'm sure you're ready to have your space back."
I turned from the sink, frowning. "The inn?"
"Yeah, the Wildwood Valley Inn? An organizer was supposed to drive me over from the fairgrounds, but I'll just text her that I'm here instead—" She pulled out her phone, squinted at the screen. "Oh. Right. No signal."
"There's no signal anywhere up here. You'd have to drive back down the mountain."
“Maybe you could give me a ride—“
"Demi." I dried my hands on a towel, trying to figure out how to say this. "My truck's still down the mountain. Where I left it when I got out to help you."
Her face went blank. "Your truck."
"Yeah. Parked on the side of the road about two miles down."
"So we're…"
"Stuck here. At least until I can fix your truck.” I glanced out the window. The sun was already sinking behind the mountains, shadows lengthening across the snow. “Hopefully, I can do it, but if I need a part…”
She stared at me. "So I'm spending the night here."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yeah. Looks like it."
The implications hung in the air between us—one cabin, one bed, and a pull I was already fighting hard to resist.
"I'll take the couch," I said quickly. "You can have the bedroom."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I can't kick you out of your own bed,” she said.
"You're not kicking me out. I'm offering."
"Torch—"
"Demi." I held her gaze, trying to ignore how good my name sounded in her voice. "You're my guest. My responsibility. You're taking the bed."
For a second, I thought she'd argue. But then she nodded, something soft in her expression that made my chest tight.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Thank you."
I grabbed my jacket from the hook by the door, needing air, needing space, needing to get my head straight. "Make yourself at home. I'll be in the garage if you need anything."
Outside, the temperature had dropped. My breath fogged in the air as I headed toward the garage, but I could still feel the warmth of the cabin—and her—at my back.
That ridiculous food truck sat in my driveway, all lit up and gaudy. This weekend was supposed to be quiet. Just me, my garage, and a '67 Mustang that needed a new transmission.
Now there was a woman in my kitchen. A food truck in my driveway. And the certain knowledge that she'd be sleeping in my bed tonight while I lay on the couch, trying not to think about her sleeping twenty feet away.
I opened the garage door and flipped on the lights, vintage signs glowing to life around me. Yeah, this was going to be a long night.