I pulled out my phone. One bar of service. Fifteen texts from my team lead asking about wireframes. Three emails flagged urgent. A calendar reminder that I had a standup meeting Monday morning at nine.
“You working?” Torch asked.
“Just checking in.”
“It’s Friday afternoon.”
“Yeah, but?—”
“Let me guess. Product launch. Deadlines. Team depending on you.”
I squinted at him. “You’re judging.”
“Observing.” He draped an arm over the wheel, perfectly relaxed. “So you make websites work?”
I bristled. “It’s way more complicated than that.”
“Sure it is.” No sarcasm—just easy acceptance that made me want to prove him wrong.
“What about you? Besides rescuing stranded food trucks?”
“I restore classic cars. Sixties, seventies. Buy, fix, sell.”
“Sounds peaceful.”
“That’s exactly why I’m here.” He looked out the window, something unreadable flickering across his face.
Before I could ask, he turned the key. The truck groaned, caught, and we were moving again. Slowly. Two more stops later, the sky was violet and we turned onto a gravel road markedPrivate Property.
“This is you?” I asked.
“End of the road. Literally.”
The trees opened to a clearing—and my jaw dropped.
His “place” was a glass-walled A-frame. White lights traced the roofline, garland wrapped the porch rails, and a real wreath—pine and cedar, not plastic—hung on the door. Behind it, a garage glowed with vintage neon signs and chrome reflections.
It was…perfect.
Torch parked and cut the engine. Quiet. Finally.
“Welcome to my place,” he said.
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.
