"You're not kicking me out. I'm offering."
"Torch—"
"Demi." I held her gaze, trying to ignore how good my name sounded in her voice. "You're my guest. My responsibility. You're taking the bed."
For a second, I thought she'd argue. But then she nodded, something soft in her expression that made my chest tight.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Thank you."
I grabbed my jacket from the hook by the door, needing air, needing space, needing to get my head straight. "Make yourself at home. I'll be in the garage if you need anything."
Outside, the temperature had dropped. My breath fogged in the air as I headed toward the garage, but I could still feel the warmth of the cabin—and her—at my back.
That ridiculous food truck sat in my driveway, all lit up and gaudy. This weekend was supposed to be quiet. Just me, my garage, and a '67 Mustang that needed a new transmission.
Now there was a woman in my kitchen. A food truck in my driveway. And the certain knowledge that she'd be sleeping in my bed tonight while I lay on the couch, trying not to think about her sleeping twenty feet away.
I opened the garage door and flipped on the lights, vintage signs glowing to life around me. Yeah, this was going to be a long night.
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."
