I laugh despite myself. "At least you're honest about it."
The truck slows as we approach a rustic building with a wooden sign reading "The Mountain Lodge" swinging gently in the December breeze. Christmas lights outline the roof and windows, twinkling cheerfully against the gray afternoon sky.
"Here we are." Diesel shifts into park but leaves the engine running. "They've got decent rooms. Ask for Ellie. Tell her I sent you."
I gather my overnight bag from between my feet. "Thanks again for the ride. I'll see you tomorrow morning at nine."
His brow furrows. "Make it ten. I've got another client's bike first thing."
"Nine thirty," I counter, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
He stares at me for a long moment before shaking his head. "Nine thirty," he agrees, sounding almost amused beneath the gruffness.
I open the door and slide out but pause before closing it. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier. The car breaking down was just the cherry on top of an already crappy day."
Diesel studies me with those intense eyes. "Tomorrow's a new day," he finally says, like he's offering some kind of truce.
I nod and close the door, watching as he pulls away before turning toward the lodge entrance. Tomorrow is indeed a new day. And hopefully one where my grandfather's car can be saved.
The woman at the reception desk looks up as I enter, her smile warm and welcoming. "Hi there! Checking in?"
"Yes, please. I need a room for..." I hesitate. How long will the car repairs take? "Let's start with a week."
Her eyebrows rise slightly. "A week? Are you visiting family for Christmas?"
"No, car trouble. Diesel Torres suggested I stay here while he works on my car."
Recognition flashes in her eyes. "Diesel sent you? Well then, we'll have to take extra good care of you. He hardly ever refers people here." She starts typing on her computer. "I'm Ellie, by the way. Ellie Winters."
"Sandra Hemmings." I hand over my credit card. "Is Diesel always so..."
"Intimidating? Brusque? Generally terrifying to small children and puppies?" Ellie grins. "That's just his way. Deep down, he's a good man."
"Very deep down," I mutter, making her laugh.
"He's the best mechanic around here," Ellie continues, swiping my card. "If anyone can fix your car, it's Diesel."
I hope she's right. That Mustang represents more than just transportation to me. It's a connection to Grandpa Joe, a man who taught me everything from how to change a tire to how to stand my ground when the world tries to push me over.
"Here's your key. Room 12, up the stairs and to the right." Ellie hands me a literal key attached to a wooden fob—no electronic key cards here. "Breakfast is included, served from six to ten. The Wi-Fi password is on the card in your room. Anything else you need, just holler."
"Thanks, Ellie." I take the key, suddenly feeling the weight of exhaustion from the day's events. "Is there somewhere I can grab dinner later?"
"Bean & Bloom Café stays open till eight. Best coffee and sandwiches in town. Or The Velvet Antler if you're looking for something fancier."
I nod my thanks and head upstairs to my room. It's cozy rather than cramped, with a rustic mountain theme that somehow avoids looking tacky. The bed is covered with a patchwork quilt, and a small electric fireplace provides both warmth and ambient light.
I drop my bag on the floor and collapse onto the bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling beams. What a day. What a month, really.
Two weeks ago, I was in Chicago, working seventy hours a week at a marketing firm I hated, engaged to a man I was increasingly sure I didn't love. Then Grandpa Joe's will was finally processed, leaving me his cabin in Crimson Hollow, British Columbia—a place I'd never even heard of.
"Time to live your authentic life, Sugar Bear," his letter had said. "The mountains have a way of stripping away pretense until all that's left is what truly matters."
Within days, I'd broken off my engagement to Martin, quit my soul-sucking job, and bought a Mustang just like Grandpa's to drive across the country border to this tiny mountain town. A classic case of third-life crisis at thirty-three.
Martin called it running away. I called it running toward something. I'm still not sure which of us is right.
And now here I am, stranded in a strange town with a broken-down car and a mechanic who looks like he belongs on the cover of "Grumpy Hot Guys Weekly," if such a magazine existed.
