I tried again. The engine turned over once, made a pathetic whimpering sound, and then died completely.
“You’re kidding me,” I grumbled, staring at the dashboard in disbelief.
I tried the ignition again. And again. And again. Each attempt was met with progressively weaker responses from the engine until finally, nothing at all. Not even a click.
I sat there for a moment, processing the fact that I was apparently stranded on a mountain road with no working vehicle and no idea how far the nearest town was.
I pulled out my phone to call for help, only to discover what I probably should have expected: no cell service. Of course. Because why would there be cell service in the middle of nowhere? That would make entirely too much sense.
I spent another ten minutes trying everything I could think of. I didn’t know shit about cars. I knew I liked nice sports cars but that was it. I tried the classic move of hitting the dashboard, as if that might magically restore the car to working order.
Nothing worked.
Which left me with exactly one option, walking back to the tree farm to ask for help.
The humiliation was almost physical. I pulled my coat tighter around myself and started the trek back up the road, my expensive leather shoes immediately proving themselves completely inadequate for hiking through snow.
By the time I made it back to the tree farm, my feet were soaked, my legs were frozen, and my pride was thoroughlybattered. I found Sylvie in the payment booth, looking warm and cozy as she rang up another customer’s tree purchase.
She looked up as I approached. Surprise flickered across her face. “Kent?”
“My car died,” I said flatly. “Just down the road. It won’t… go.”
She arched a brow. “It won’t go?”
“It died. I tried to start it a few times and now the lights won’t even turn on.”
“I can drive you back there with some jumper cables. You probably killed the battery trying to start it.”
The offer should have been a relief, but instead it felt deeply emasculating. Here I was, having to be rescued by the same woman I’d been mentally dismissing as a small-town Christmas fanatic just an hour earlier.
It was only a little humiliating that she knew what might be wrong with the car.
“I’d appreciate that,” I said, because what other choice did I have?
“We’ve got some cables in the truck,” she said. “Come on.”
I followed her to what had to be the most pathetic excuse for a vehicle I’d ever seen. The truck was a rusted bucket of shit. I was being rescued by a woman that drove a truck that had no business being on the road.
I was certain my day could not get worse.
“It’s not much to look at,” she said, apparently reading my expression. “But it runs. Most of the time.”
We climbed into the cab, and she started the engine, which coughed and wheezed before settling into what sounded like a death rattle. But it moved when she put it in gear, so I supposed that counted as functional by local standards.
It was doing more than the damn rental. Luxury vehicle, my ass.
The drive back to my car took only a few minutes, but it was long enough for me to notice that cinnamon and vanilla scent.
She pulled up behind my dark vehicle and got out to survey the situation. I was climbing out of the passenger side when I heard her gasp.
“You threw it in the ditch?”
I looked over to see her staring at the tree I had discarded, her expression one of complete horror, like I’d just shot the finger at a puppy.
“I didn’t need it,” I said dismissively.
“But it’s a Christmas tree!”
