Page 5 of How to Kiss a Mountain Man

After we hang up, I lock up the shop and head upstairs to my apartment. The space isn’t much—just an open-plan kitchen and living room with exposed brick walls and windows that overlook Main Street—but it’s mine. It’s home.

As I heat up leftover lasagna, Griffin’s voice plays through my mind. I think about how it softened when he talked about his work, then grew warmer as our conversation meandered. None of it fits with the whispered stories I've tried to ignore—about a violent past, about why he lives alone on that mountain, about things that happened in other towns before he came here.

I eat at my kitchen counter, phone in hand. Instead of checking social media, I find myself typing Griffin’s name into a search engine. The first result is a veterans’ crisis support website, and there he is, listed as a counselor, credentials clear and verified.

Some of the tension eases from my shoulders. At least that part was true.

After I finish eating, I take a hot shower, hoping it will help take my mind off Griffin. But it doesn’t help at all. My mind keeps circling back to what I found in his truck, and then to the passion in his voice when he talked about helping veterans. I want to believe in that version of him—the gentle giant who apologizes when he’s wrong, someone who does good in the world.

In bed, I watch my ceiling fan’s lazy circles and wonder what Dad would say about all this. I know exactly how he’d react to those rumors about Griffin—he always believed in giving people a chance to prove themselves. But I can also hear his protective tone, the one he used whenever he caught boys hanging around the shop trying to talk to me. He’d tell me to be careful, to never ignore red flags.

I fall asleep caught between these two sides of my father’s imagined advice, and between my own indecision about Griffin, unsure whether I should trust or fear him.

3

GRIFFIN

My axe swings in a perfect arc, muscle memory from thousands of repetitions guiding each strike. I’ve been at this since dawn, the pile of split wood steadily growing with each hour of work. My t-shirt clings to my back, but I keep going—there’s peace in this kind of work, in the simplicity of breaking something down to its useful parts.

Or there would be, if I could stop thinking about Jordana.

My mind keeps circling back to her—to the confidence in her hands as she inspected my engine, to those mind-blowingly gorgeous curves of hers, to the way she so generously offered me her truck. Her trust feels like a gift I don’t deserve, and that only makes it harder to get her out of my head.

The phone rings inside my cabin. I quickly drive my axe into the stump and head for the door, trying to ignore how my pulse quickens at the possibility it might be her.

It is.

“Griffin?” Her voice carries that perfect mix of professionalism and warmth. “I’ve got a full assessment of your engine.”

I lean against my kitchen counter, running a hand through my sweat-damp hair. “What’s the verdict?”

“The core repairs we discussed are non-negotiable. But I found some other components showing concerning wear patterns. They’re not critical yet, but they will be. I’d like to get your thoughts on which parts you’d like to replace.”

“What would you recommend?” The question comes naturally, despite how rarely I trust anyone’s judgment but my own these days.

She launches into a detailed explanation, her expertise evident in every word. “The timing chain assembly is the main concern. The current one isn’t on its last legs, but the teeth are showing uneven wear on the driver’s side, and the tensioner’s getting loose. If it were my truck, I’d replace the whole assembly while we’re in there. It’ll save you having to tear everything apart again when it eventually does give out.”

The thorough assessment makes me even more confident in her. “Makes sense. Let’s do it your way—you clearly know your stuff.”

“Oh?” A smile threads through her voice. “Is that an apology for questioning my diagnosis yesterday?”

“It’s just the truth. You know engines.”

“That I do.” Her tone stays professional, but there’s new warmth there that sends a pleasant heat through my body.

I should let her go now that we’ve handled business. Instead, I find myself saying, “I hope my rebuild isn’t causing too much chaos at your shop.”

“Nothing I can’t handle. Unexpected jobs come with the territory.” She pauses, and I hear metal clinking against metalin the background. “Just don’t hover in my garage watching my every move to make sure I’m doing it right, and we’ll be fine.”

Her words are light, but something in them catches my attention. “People actually do that to you?”

“More often than you’d think.”

A protective anger rises in my chest, surprising me with its intensity. “That’s completely out of line. I hope you call them out on it.”

She laughs, the sound genuine and unguarded. “I have a system. I grab the biggest wrench I can find, hold it out, and tell them, ‘Here, you seem like you know better—go for it.’ Nobody’s taken me up on it yet.”

I join her laughter, admiring her approach. It’s yet another thing about her that makes me drawn to her.Toodrawn to her.

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