Chapter 5
DEMI
“Okay, start it up.”
I grinned and turned the key. My little economy car at home had a push button, but this food truck? Old school. The kind of vehicle that probably remembered dial-up internet.
The engine turned over once. Twice. Then it gave a sad little wheeze and died.
My smile dropped. I tried again, pumping the gas pedal like I could bribe it to cooperate. The engine coughed in protest and went silent.
“No, no, no. Come on!” I twisted the key harder because clearly physics responds to desperation.
Nothing.
Torch appeared at my window, his expression carefully neutral—the look of someone with bad news. “Try it one more time.”
I did. Same result. My heart plummeted straight through the floorboard.
Last night, this truck had purred like a kitten. We’d driven it down the mountain, laughing at how ridiculous we looked in the over-decorated Christmas-mobile. I’d felt unstoppable, still buzzing from our marathon of garage, bed, and shower adventures.
But now? The sun was up, reality had arrived, and I had ninety minutes to get to the festival with enough cinnamon rolls to feed half of Wildwood Valley.
And my truck was officially dead.
“It worked last night,” I said, already hearing how weak that sounded.
“Temporary fix.” Torch opened my door, jaw tight. “I knew it might not hold, but I hoped—” He shook his head. “Let me check under the hood.”
I climbed out, hugging myself against the sharp mountain cold. My breath fogged in the air. The pines were snow-dusted and postcard-perfect, which only made me want to scream harder.
Torch disappeared under the hood. Clanking. A muttered curse. More clanking.
Every tick of the clock felt like another nail in the coffin of my parents’ trust. They'd asked me for one thing—stand in for them at this Christmas festival—and I was about to blow it. I'd gotten distracted instead of making sure the truck was fixed.
But it wasn’t his fault. He’d done everything he could.
“How bad is it?” I called, though I already knew the answer.
He straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. His expression said it all.
“Radiator hose gave out. Even if I patch it, it won’t make it down the mountain.”
The world tilted. I caught myself on the truck.
“So that’s it,” I said flatly. “I failed.”
“Hey.” Two strides and his hands were on my shoulders—warm, steady, grounding. “You didn’t fail.”
“I let my parents down. The festival. Everyone.” My throat tightened. “I can’t do anything right unless it’s on my stupid laptop.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? I thought I could do this—be someone different for once—but I can’t even start a food truck.”
“You were trying to help your family,” he said softly. “That’s not failure.”
“The truck is dead, Torch. Dead.”
He studied me, his dark eyes focused. Then something sparked there.
“How many cinnamon rolls are prepped?”
“What?”
“The rolls. How many are ready?”
“All of them. I made everything yesterday. Just have to pop them in the oven. Why—?”
His mouth curved into a slow, dangerous grin. “And where can you bake them?”
I frowned, brain catching up. “Anywhere with an oven. Why—”
I stopped, looked at his truck.
“Oh, no. No way. You’re not serious.”
“Completely serious.” He was already moving toward the back of the food truck. “We load everything into my truck, get you down to the festival, and I’ll find a kitchen. Done.”
“It’s not that simple—”
“Sure it is.” He threw open the back door and eyed the trays of perfectly proofed rolls. “You’ve got the goods, I’ve got the ride, and we’ve got—” he checked his watch “—one hour, nineteen minutes. Plenty of time.”
“Torch.” My heart did something complicated. “You don’t have to—”
He turned, eyes locking on mine. “Yeah, I do. Because you matter to me. And this matters to you. So we’re doing it.”
My brain short-circuited. This beautiful, infuriating man was about to save my entire life.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s do it.”
We moved like a NASCAR pit crew. Trays, tubs of icing, bottles of vanilla and cinnamon—all loaded carefully into the bed of his truck under the camper shell. My hands shook, not from the cold but from the weight of what he was doing for me. When I nearly dropped a tray, he caught it—and me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
And somehow, I believed him.
Twenty minutes later, we were barreling down the mountain. I clutched my phone, even though there was still no signal.
“What if there’s nowhere to bake? What if the festival doesn’t have a kitchen or—”
“Then we’ll figure it out.” His hand found mine, solid and warm. “Stop catastrophizing.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re spiraling. There’s a difference.”
Fair. Product-launch Demi had color-coded contingency plans. Festival Demi was one minor inconvenience away from a meltdown.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “Even if it doesn’t work—”
“It’ll work.”
“But if it doesn’t, this—this means everything.”
He glanced at me, something soft in his expression. “You mean everything. To me.”
My heart skipped. We’d known each other for a day. A day. This should’ve felt like too much, too soon.
But it didn’t. It felt exactly right.
The Wildwood Valley Christmas Festival looked like a snow globe come to life—garlands, lights, carolers, kids with cocoa. Perfect. Offensively perfect.
And I had no booth. No table. No plan.
Torch parked and hopped out. “Stay here. I’ll find someone who can help.”
“Who—”
But he was already gone, talking to an older woman with a clipboard and bright green glasses. They spoke. She looked at me. I sank lower in my seat. Then she smiled, patted his arm, and hurried off.
Torch jogged back. “That’s Bobbi. Runs the inn, half the town, and probably the weather. She’s getting you set up.”
“Set up where? I don’t have—”
“She’s finding you one. Let’s unload.”
“This is insane. You can’t just—”
He kissed me—quick, firm, shutting down my protest. “Trust me,” he said against my lips.
I did.
Minutes later, Bobbi returned with reinforcements. Santa’s stunt double carried over a folding table. Someone else brought a red tablecloth and a hand-painted Fresh Cinnamon Rolls sign. A candle vendor offered up the community kitchen in the church basement.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I told her, teary-eyed.
“Honey, we take care of our own.” She smiled. “Even the new ones.”
Our own. The words hit somewhere deep.
Torch and I hauled everything to the church kitchen. It was warm and smelled like heaven. A woman in an apron waved us toward an oven.
“Third one’s yours, sweetheart. Timer’s on the wall.”
“You don’t even know me,” I said.
“You’re with Torch,” she said simply. “That’s enough.”
And just like that, we were baking. Torch slid trays into the ovens while I whipped up icing. Within minutes, we were dusted in flour and sugar, laughing, bumping shoulders like we’d done this a hundred times.
“This is actually kinda fun,” he said.
“You’ve never worked food service before?”
“Nope. But I like it.” He shot me a grin. “I like doing this with you.”
My chest tightened. “Yeah. Me too.”
The first batch came out perfect—golden, soft, iced to glossy perfection. We packed them up and raced back to the booth, where a crowd was already forming.
“Are those ready?” a woman asked.
“Yes!” I said, then added quickly, “Classic vanilla or maple pecan—”
“Two classic!” She was already handing me cash.
And we were in business.
Three hours flew by. We sold out. People raved. A little boy declared they were “better than Grandma’s,” earning a scandalized laugh from his grandma.
Torch was beside me the whole time—taking money, flirting with grandmas, high-fiving kids. He belonged here. And somehow, by his side, I did too.
By two o’clock, our trays were empty.
“We did it,” I said, dazed.
“You did it.” He pulled me close. “I just drove.”
“You saved the day.”
“We saved it. Together.”
I turned in his arms, snow starting to fall again, lights twinkling all around us. It was disgustingly magical.
“I don’t want to go back,” I whispered.
He stilled. “What?”
“To California. I mean, I have to. For work. For now. But I don’t want to leave this. You.”
His brow furrowed. “Demi, you don’t have to decide now—”
“I already have.” I took a breath. “I’ve spent my whole life chasing the next launch, the next promotion, the next reason to feel worthy. And I’m done. I want this. You. This town. This life. I’ll figure out the rest.”
He stared for a heartbeat. Then he kissed me—deep, sure, and right in the middle of the festival, snow swirling around us.
When he pulled back, he was smiling for real. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
Snowflakes caught in his hair as the world sparkled around us—music, laughter, cinnamon-sugar air.
I came to Wildwood Valley to sell cinnamon rolls. I was staying for a future.