Page 1 of How to Kiss a Mountain Man

1

GRIFFIN

“Come on, beautiful. Don’t do this to me.” I press my palm against my truck’s hood, the metal warm beneath my touch. The engine is making a sound that reminds me too much of artillery fire—precise, threatening, and impossible to ignore.

I’ve tried everything in my toolbox over the past week. Changed the oil, checked the spark plugs, tightened every bolt I can reach. But this morning’s sound is different. Final. Like my truck is taking its last breaths.

Above, spring sunlight filters through new leaves, dappling my truck’s red paint with shifting patterns. I pop the hood and brace my hands on either side, letting out a slow breath as I study the engine bay one more time. Everything looks normal—serpentine belt, mounting bolts, all the usual suspects. But that rhythmic pounding tells a different story.

The kind of story that requires a mechanic.

The realization settles cold in my gut. Up here on the mountain, my truck isn’t just transportation. It’s my lifeline to everythingbeyond these forested slopes. I need it running solid to stock my cabin with supplies, to handle the rough terrain on grocery runs. I especially need it for reaching the veterans I counsel when phone calls aren’t enough, when they need someone sitting across from them, someone who understands.

I lower the hood with extra care. Birds scatter from nearby trees as I ease into the driver’s seat and steer my truck down the mountain road, away from the safety of home.

Miles later, the mountain gives way to foothills, then to coastal lowlands. The trees thin out, offering glimpses of grayish-blue water through the branches. The air grows heavier, laden with salt and morning fog. After a long stretch of winding highway, I take the exit for Fairhope.

The town spreads out before me—neat rows of storefronts and cherry trees bursting with pink blossoms. It’s the kind of place that should feel welcoming, but my skin prickles with unease as I drive down Main Street.

I find Blake’s Auto Body in a weathered building with faded white trim. The gravel lot crunches under my tires as I pull in, the sign overhead promisingQuality Work, Fair Pricesin sun-bleached letters. I cut the engine of my truck and climb out, rolling my shoulders against the tension gathered there.

The office inside is barely bigger than my truck’s cab. Condensation beads on the single window where cool morning air meets the warmth within. A man in worn jeans and a white tee occupies one of two plastic chairs, flipping through a car magazine that’s seen better days. The desk sits empty except for a business card holder and a potted plant that’s thriving despite the cramped space. A fan spins lazily in the corner, pushing around warm air and the sharp scent of motor oil.

I step toward the open doorway leading to the garage. “Hello?”

The whine of power tools cuts off. Footsteps approach, and a woman emerges from behind a lifted car. Her movements are fluid, even graceful, as she wipes her hands on a red shop rag. Her grease-stained coveralls should hide her figure, but instead they reveal curves that draw my eyes before I can stop myself.

When she lifts her head, the full force of her gaze hits me—her blue eyes are direct and assessing, framed by thick lashes that temporarily make me forget what I came here for.

“What can I help you with?” she asks. Her voice is relaxed and professional, with an undertone that makes me want to lean in closer to catch every word.

“My engine is making a sound it shouldn’t.” I force myself to focus on the problem at hand, not the way morning light plays across her pretty features. “It started as a subtle tapping. Now it sounds like a time bomb counting down under my hood.”

She glances out toward the lot. “That red pickup yours?”

“Yes.”

“I can take a look, run some diagnostics once I finish up my current job.” Her gaze shifts to the cramped waiting area visible through the office’s open doorway, then back to me. Morning light catches her eyes, revealing flecks of gold in the blue. “The cafe up the street has decent coffee. Give me about forty-five minutes?”

The last thing I want is to walk into a cafe full of people. But there’s no room for me in the auto shop’s waiting area, and the truth is, I could use a cup of coffee. So, despite myself, I give a nod in response.

The beauty standing in front of me turns back toward the garage with a poise that shouldn’t be possible in steel-toed boots, her hips swaying just enough to make my mouth go dry. I drag my eyes away, silently chiding myself for staring at this woman like a lovestruck teenager.

I head out of the auto shop, telling myself to get it together. The cafe is on the next block up, its windows full of locals living their perfect small-town lives. New flowers fill the window boxes, bright splashes of pink and yellow celebrating the change of seasons. My jaw tightens as I push open the door, setting off a cheerful bell that feels more like a warning.

I walk inside, and conversations fade. Eyes track my movement to the counter. The barista takes my order without meeting my gaze, her movements quick and stiff.

I try not to let their reactions get to me, but it stings, being treated like this.

Coffee in hand, I head to the condiment station for a lid. But the spot where the lids should be sits empty. Of course. I could walk back over to the counter and ask the barista for one, but instead I turn toward the door, trying to ignore the weight of stares against my back.

This is why I avoid town. Every sideways glance and whispered conversation reminds me that I don’t belong here, that I’m an intruder in their little paradise.

The bell chimes again as I push through the door—right into someone’s shoulder. The collision disorients me, sending hot coffee splashing onto my chest and drawing a sharp curse from my lips. Not all of it spills, but the dark stain spreading across my shirt feels like one more way this town is marking me as anoutsider. A few people on the sidewalk stop to stare, not even pretending to hide their interest in my misfortune.

The walk back to the auto body shop feels three times as far. Locals part around me, their eyes sliding away when I look at them. Nine months since I moved here, and they still treat me like I’m made of razor wire.

I reach the shop with coffee dripping down my shirt, planning to just wait outside. But through the window, I see the waiting area is empty now—my first stroke of luck all day. I walk into the office and sink into the newly vacated chair, my frame too large for the cheap plastic seat.

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