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 lightdisplay, 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.”
