Chapter 3
DEMI
Iprobably should’ve stayed in his warm cabin, basking in the firelight and pretending to work. But no—apparently, I was physically incapable of relaxing like a normal person.
First, I found the window that overlooked the detached garage, intending to casually spy on him while I “checked my email.” Except he’d parked the food truck inside. Perfect. All I could see was a big gray door and my own impatient reflection.
Then I paced. I walked the length of the cabin so many times, I was surprised I didn’t wear a groove in the floorboards. No matter how much I moved, the energy in my chest kept sparking—like I'd swallowed a live wire.
He had to be thirsty. He’d gone out there without a drink—not even a bottled water. A quick hydration mission—that was a good excuse to go out there. Bring him something, check on the truck, maybe find out how much longer he’d be. Totally reasonable.
I flung open the fridge, smiling as I remembered cooking for him earlier. Domestic stuff wasn’t my strength. Normally, I was happiest with a laptop, obsessing over the perfect millisecond delay on a hover animation, not… sautéing things.
But I’d liked it. I liked being here. I liked him. And the way he’d talked about wanting a family had hit me right in the solar plexus.
What was happening to me, and who even was I right now?
“Water,” I said aloud, because apparently narrating my own actions was part of my mental breakdown. “Bottled water.”
The fridge offered exactly zero bottled water.
But something else caught my eye—beer. My favorite kind.
The same brand my dad always had in the fridge when I was a kid.
I may or may not have had a few illicit sips back then, which probably explained a lot about my current taste in beverages—and men.
I grabbed two bottles, nudged the door shut with my foot, and headed for the exit like a woman on a mission. Halfway there, I remembered the arctic tundra outside. I needed a coat.
Thirty seconds later, I was bundled up and trudging down the icy path toward his garage, two beers clinking in my hand like a peace offering.
The garage door was cracked open, warm yellow light spilling across the snow.
I could hear the clank of tools, the scrape of metal on metal, and—was that Bing Crosby?
I pushed the door wider and stepped inside.
Holy. Wow.
If the cabin was impressive, the garage was a full sensory experience.
Vintage neon signs glowed along the walls—Texaco, Mobil, Route 66.
A red Coca-Cola machine hummed in the corner, the kind from the fifties with the curved top.
Chrome tools hung in perfect rows on pegboards.
Everything was organized, clean, and intentional.
And in the middle of it all was Torch, bent over the open hood of my parents' ridiculous food truck.
He'd ditched the flannel. Now he wore a faded gray T-shirt that clung to his shoulders and back, showing off the kind of muscles earned from actual work.
His jeans hung low on his hips, and when he shifted his weight, leaning deeper into the engine, I got a very educational view of—
"You planning to stand there all night, or are you going to tell me why you're staring?"
I jumped, heat flooding my face. He hadn't even turned around.
"I wasn't staring."
"Sure you weren't." He straightened, wiping his hands on a rag, and turned to face me. His mouth curved into that almost-smile that did dangerous things to my stomach. "What's in your hands?"
I held up the beers like evidence. "Thought you might be thirsty."
"Thoughtful." He walked over, took one of the bottles, and twisted off the cap. Then he took a long drink. I watched his throat work and had about seven hundred inappropriate thoughts in three seconds.
Get it together, Demi.
"Thanks," he said, lowering the bottle. "You didn't have to come out here."
"I was bored."
"No signal to keep you entertained?"
"Shockingly, I survived."
I twisted the cap off my own beer and took a sip, looking around for somewhere to sit. The workbench along the back wall looked sturdy enough. I hopped up, settling onto the smooth wood surface, legs dangling.
Torch's eyes tracked the movement, lingering on my thighs for half a second before he turned back to the truck. "Make yourself comfortable."
"Already did."
He chuckled—low and warm—and disappeared under the hood again.
I sipped my beer and watched him work. Watched the way his shoulders flexed when he reached for something deep in the engine.
How his shirt rode up when he stretched, revealing a strip of tanned skin above his waistband.
The confidence in every movement, like his hands knew exactly what to do and where to go.
My brain—traitorous thing—immediately wondered what those hands would feel like on me.
I'd never thought like this before. Not really.
Sure, I'd had crushes and a few bad dates with guys from work who talked about agile methodology over sushi.
But I'd never looked at a man and felt this pull, this sheer desire.
"How's it looking?" I asked.
"Coolant system's shot. Radiator hose has a crack. Thermostat's probably stuck." He straightened, grabbed a wrench from the pegboard. "Good news is, I can patch it enough to get you to the festival. Bad news is, it's not going to last much longer after that."
"My parents will love that."
"Not your problem."
He leaned back into the engine, and I got another excellent view of his—
"You're doing it again,” he said.
I nearly choked on my beer. "Doing what?"
"Staring." He glanced over his shoulder, eyes glinting with amusement. "Specifically, at my ass."
"I was not—" I stopped. No point lying when I'd been caught red-handed. "Okay, fine. I was admiring your…work ethic."
"My work ethic." He turned fully now, setting the wrench down, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement made his biceps do things that should've been illegal. "That what we're calling it?"
"What would you call it?"
He took a step toward me. Then another. My pulse kicked up with each one.
"I'd call it mutual attraction," he said.
"That's very confident of you."
"Am I wrong?"
No. He absolutely was not wrong. But admitting it felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing how far the drop was.
"I don't…" I trailed off, took another sip of beer for courage. "I don't really do this."
"Do what?"
"This. Whatever this is." I gestured vaguely between us. "I'm usually working. I’m always buried in my screens, figuring there will be plenty of time to date later. I've just never met anyone who made me want to put my laptop down."
Torch's expression softened. "And now?"
"Now I'm sitting on a workbench in a garage in the mountains, drinking beer with a man I met four hours ago, and I can't stop thinking about—" I stopped myself, shook my head. "Never mind."
"Thinking about what?" His voice had dropped lower, rougher.
The air between us thickened. I could feel the heat coming off him even though he was still a few feet away. Could smell motor oil and soap and something woodsy and masculine.
"Things I've never really thought about before," I admitted quietly. "Not like this."
He studied me for a long moment, something dark and hungry flickering across his face. "You should probably stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying to decide if I'm worth the risk."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "What if I am?"
"Then you should know something first." He took another step, close enough now that I had to tilt my head back to hold his gaze.
"I've been thinking things about you since I pulled you off that mountain road.
Things I shouldn't. And if you keep sitting on my workbench looking like that, I'm going to have a real hard time keeping them to myself. "
Heat pooled low in my stomach. "Define 'naughty thoughts.'"
His jaw tightened. "Demi."
"I'm serious." The beer—or maybe the recklessness flooding my system—made me bold. "I want to know what you've been thinking."
"You sure about that?"
"Very sure."
He braced one hand on the workbench beside my hip, leaning in close enough that I could see the darker flecks in his brown eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw.
"I've been thinking about what you'd taste like.
Whether you'd make sounds if I kissed you the right way.
How your skin would feel under my hands.
" His voice dropped even lower. "How you'd look in my bed. "
My breath caught. Every nerve ending in my body lit up like the Christmas lights on that ridiculous food truck.
"Oh," I managed.
"Yeah. Oh." He pulled back slightly, giving me space even though it clearly cost him. "So unless you're ready to follow through on whatever this is, you should probably go back to the cabin."
"What if I don't want to go back to the cabin?"
"Then you need to tell me what you do want."
I set my beer down on the bench beside me, hands shaking slightly. This was insane. I didn't do spontaneous. I didn't do reckless. My life was spreadsheets and wireframes and five-year plans.
But something about this man—this mountain, this moment—made me want to be someone different. Someone braver.
"I want—" I swallowed hard. "I've never done this before. Not really."
His expression shifted. "Never done what?"
"This. Any of this." The words came out in a rush. "I've been so focused on my career, on proving myself, that I just…didn't make time. And now I'm twenty-three and I've never—" I couldn't finish the sentence.
Understanding dawned in his eyes. Followed immediately by something that looked like restraint. "You're telling me you're a virgin."
"I mean, technically, yes. But it's not like I'm saving myself for marriage or anything. It just never happened. And honestly?" I met his gaze. "I'm starting to think I've been missing out."
He exhaled slowly, like he was trying to get himself under control. "Demi, if that's true, then you definitely shouldn't—"
"I'm ready," I interrupted. "I know we just met.
I know this is crazy. But I've spent my whole adult life playing it safe, doing the responsible thing, and where has it gotten me?
Alone in Silicon Valley, working eighty-hour weeks, going home to an empty apartment.
" I reached out, rested my hand on his chest. His heart was racing.
"I don't want to be safe anymore. At least not tonight. "
For a long moment, he just looked at me. I could practically see the war happening behind his eyes—want versus responsibility, desire versus restraint.
Then his hand covered mine, warm and steady. "You're killing me here."
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"It's a 'you need to be absolutely sure,' because once I start, I'm not going to want to stop."
I took a deep breath. Grabbed my beer. Downed half of it in three long swallows. Set it back down with more force than necessary.
"I'm sure."
Something in his expression changed. The restraint cracked. Gave way to pure heat.
He moved then—not toward me, but past me, reaching around to grab something from the pegboard behind my head. A wrench, maybe. Or a screwdriver. I didn't care.
What I cared about was that he was suddenly right there, his body nearly pressed against mine, his arm extended over my shoulder, his face inches from my neck.
My body moved on instinct. I hooked my legs around his waist and pulled him closer, trapping him against the workbench. Against me.
He froze. The tool—definitely a wrench—clattered back onto the bench.
"Demi." My name came out rough, almost pained.
"Yeah?"
"What are you doing?"
"I think it's called 'following through.'"
He turned his head slowly, and suddenly we were face to face. Eye to eye. Breath to breath.
"Last chance to change your mind," he murmured.
"I don't want to change my mind." My hands found his shoulders, solid and warm under the thin cotton of his shirt. "I want you to kiss me."
His eyes dropped to my mouth. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
For one suspended heartbeat, neither of us moved. The garage was silent except for the hum of the Coca-Cola machine and the distant sound of wind in the pines.
Then his hand came up, cupping my jaw with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the hunger in his eyes.
"Just so we're clear," he said softly. "I'm not a safe choice. I'm not some tech bro who’ll take you to nice restaurants and talk about your career goals. I'm a guy who lives alone on a mountain and wants things he probably shouldn't."
"Good," I whispered. "Because I'm done with safe."
His thumb brushed across my lower lip. Once. Twice.
Then he kissed me. And the world caught fire.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't tentative. It was heat and hunger—years of loneliness on his side, twenty-three years of wondering on mine, colliding in the space between breaths.
His mouth moved over mine with purpose, like he'd been thinking about this as long as I had. His hands slid into my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss, and I made a sound I didn't recognize—something between a gasp and a moan.
He responded by stepping closer, pressing fully between my thighs, and oh—
This. This was what I'd been missing.
My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. He tasted like beer and mint and something darker, something that made me want to climb inside his skin and stay there.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. "Demi," he said again, his voice wrecked.
"Yeah?"
"We should go inside."
"Why?"
His eyes were dark, pupils dilated. "Because if we stay out here, I'm going to lay you down on this workbench and do things that make you scream. And I'd rather do that somewhere with a bed and a locked door."
Heat flooded through me. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." He pressed one more kiss to my mouth—softer this time, but no less devastating. "Come on. Before I lose what's left of my self-control."
He stepped back, and the cold air rushed in where his body had been. I immediately missed the warmth.
But when he held out his hand, I took it without hesitation.
Whatever was about to happen, I was ready.