Page 2 of How to Kiss a Mountain Man

Taking a careful sip of what’s left of my coffee, I let my eyes wander over the desk, where the business card holder catches my attention. The cards nestled inside are printed in plain bold lettering:Jordana Blake, Owner & Lead Mechanic.

Jordana. Her name settles in my chest in a way it shouldn’t.

Through the open doorway, I can see her inspecting my truck. She moves with precise confidence, her hands sure and capable as they check every inch of my engine. Something shifts in my chest watching her with my truck. Part of me bristles seeing anyone else’s hands on it—that truck has been my only constant companion since I left the service. But also there’s something alluring about her competence, the way she seems to read the engine like a book. No wasted movements, no hesitation. Just pure skill and focus.

I know I shouldn’t stare. But I’m too mesmerized by the way she leans in to listen to something, her fingers tracing along metal with extra care. Then she leans in deeper, pressing her luscious curves against the fender of my truck. Heat rises under myskin, and I shift in my chair, uncomfortable with how much I’m noticing.

Then, suddenly, she’s walking over to the office. I straighten up, trying to look like I haven’t been watching her every move.

“I’ve got bad news.” Her voice is firm but kind. “Your engine needs a full rebuild. The damage is extensive.”

“Are you sure?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Her eyebrow arches, and I realize I’m being that guy—the one who assumes he knows better. Heat creeps up my neck.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have questioned you.” I run a hand through my hair, genuinely ashamed. “It’s just that this is going to be a major inconvenience for me.”

“That’s what loaner cars are for.” She gestures through the window to a small sedan parked outside. “You’re welcome to use that while we work on your truck.”

One look at the sedan tells me everything I need to know. “That won’t make it up the mountain road. The terrain’s too rough.”

She takes my refusal in stride. “Is there anyone who could give you rides for a while? Or maybe you could stay in town while the work’s being done?”

The thought of spending days in Fairhope makes my skin crawl. And my closest mountain neighbors—a family of four who always seem impossibly happy—are practically strangers. I shake my head. “Neither of those will work.”

Silence stretches between us, heavy with the weight of my limited options. Then she says something that throws me completely off balance: “Take my truck.”

I stare at her, certain I’ve misheard. People in Fairhope don’t offer me anything, let alone something this personal. “What?”

“Take my truck,” she repeats, more firmly this time. Her blue eyes hold mine, unflinching. “I live above the shop, so I can use the loaner. It’s not a big deal.”

Everything in me wants to refuse. It’s too much, too personal, especially from someone in this town. The offer creates a debt, a connection I’m not sure I want. But my options disappeared the moment she saidfull rebuildand something in her straightforward gaze makes it hard to maintain my usual walls.

“Okay.” The word feels strange in my mouth, like admitting defeat. “Thank you.”

She starts explaining details about the repair, but then her eyes catch on my shirt. “Coffee casualty?”

I glance down at the stain. “Lid shortage.”

“Here.” She grabs a clean shop rag from a nearby shelf, offering it with a small smile that makes my chest clench. “Don’t know how much that’ll help, but it’s something.”

I take the rag from her, touched by this small gesture from a woman who doesn’t even know me, who has every reason to treat me like the rest of the town does. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

We wrap up the paperwork, and she leads me out to her truck. While she clears some things from the cab, I catch little glimpses of her life—a yoga mat rolled up behind the seat, a dog-eared paperback with a starry-eyed couple on the cover, a travel mug decorated with sea turtles. Small details I shouldn’t find fascinating but do. They paint a picture of someone who lovesher work but isn’t defined by it, who has a life full of interests and passions I know nothing about.

“I’ll call as soon as I know more about your truck,” she says, handing me her keys. Our fingers almost brush, and I can’t decide if I’m grateful or disappointed when they don’t.

The almost-touch also makes me too damn aware of how long it’s been since I’ve touched anyone.

When I get into her truck, it feels different from mine—newer, cleaner, with a lingering hint of lavender. But it’s still clearly a working vehicle, with mud on the floor mats and a few dings in the dash. The contradiction suits her—feminine but not delicate, strong without trying to prove anything.

Relief floods through me as I leave Fairhope behind, the town shrinking in the rearview mirror. But as I wait to turn onto the highway, I find myself distracted by a crystal suncatcher swinging from her mirror. It keeps dancing in the spring sunlight and blocking my view. Irritated with everything—the suncatcher, this whole situation, my unwanted attraction to Jordana—I reach up to push it aside.

The chain snaps in my hand with a tiny sound that feels deafening in the quiet cab.

“Shit.” I stare at the broken object, heat rising in my face. I’ve had her truck for five minutes, and I’m already breaking things. I toss the suncatcher onto the passenger seat as a gap opens in the traffic, trying to ignore the guilt settling in my stomach as I accelerate onto the highway.

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