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.”
