Chapter 1
Madison
There are several life choices that have led me to this exact moment.
Choice number one: quitting a perfectly respectable marketing job to chase my "authentic culinary vision."
Choice number two: deciding that vision meant driving a food truck across several states instead of finding one location to grow from.
Choice number three: believing the weather forecast that said"light flurries possible."
Light flurries, my cinnamon-glazed butt.
Snow is currently blowing sideways across Wylde Mountain like winter forgot it’s May. It’s the first week of the month. The calendar insists it’s spring. Spring, however, is apparently lost somewhere between Idaho and denial.
I grip the steering wheel of my truck and squint at the street lined with rustic storefronts, snow dusting the rooftops like powdered sugar on one of my cinnamon buns. Which would be poetic. If I wasn’t actively panicking.
"Okay," I mutter to myself. "You have driven through Denver traffic. You have parallel parked in downtown Seattle. You can absolutely park a food truck in a quaint mountain town."
The truck lurches as a gust of wind hits it broadside.
Quaint. Mountain. Town.
What was I thinking?
Right. Content.
Wylde Mountain is trending. Rugged cabins. Outdoor lifestyle. Big flannel energy. I had a whole campaign planned:Peak Bites Goes Wild.I even considered special-edition cinnamon buns shaped like little mountain peaks. The irony is not lost on me that I might die in a snowdrift before selling a single one.
I ease the truck forward. Too far left. Correct. Too far right. Why is the curb closer than it looks? Why is everything closer than it looks?
There are people watching. Of course there are.
My jaw tightens. I am an independent business owner. I designed this truck. I have a loyal online following and a waitlist for my brown butter cinnamon rolls.
"Okay," I whisper. "We are calm. We are capable. We are not reversing into a bookstore with a couple watching through the window on day one."
The back wheel bumps something. I freeze. Please don’t be a historic wooden planter. Please don’t be a moose statue. Please don’t be—
A knock sounds on my driver’s window.
Slow. Solid. Confident.
I turn.
He doesn’t smile. He just looks at the angle of my truck. Then at me.
I open the door, getting out to assess my parking job so far. But when my eyes meet his, my brain fully, completely, unhelpfully short-circuits.
He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wind-tossed dark hair and gorgeous hazel eyes. Flannel shirt pulled tight over shoulders that look like they were carved specifically to chop firewood for fun. His expression is neutral.
"Need a spotter?" he finally asks.
His voice is low. Calm. Like I’m not actively committing vehicular embarrassment.
"I’ve got it," I say brightly.
His gaze flicks to the curb.
