Page 1 of Winter Wish

Chapter 1

While her classmates hit the casinos and hunted for evening parties, Jorie Tate was determined to spend her first hours in Las Vegas far more productively.

She was on a reconnaissance mission.

Though it was early evening, the desert heat clung stubbornly to the city. Jorie barely noticed. Compared to the sticky humidity of a southern summer, the dry warmth was almost a relief.

What did give her pause, however, were the endless waves of people flowing along the Vegas Strip. The crush of bodies, the cacophony of noise, and the occasional foul odor hovered just shy of overwhelming. But this survey was critical to her plans, so she pushed forward.

Jorie shuddered to imagine what the Strip might be like after sunset. Her goal was simple: get in, get out, and retreat to her hotel room before things got even crazier. She wove her way through the throngs of tourists, dodging clusters of selfie-takers and determined not to lose focus.

Then, out of nowhere, the crowd parted in front of her. She sidestepped quickly, narrowly avoiding a sun-leathered man who bore an uncanny resemblance to the classic depictions of Jesus—except he was riding a unicycle.

Jorie did a double take and nearly tripped over her own feet. The self-proclaimed messiah wore nothing but a pair of tighty-whities, though calling them "white" was a stretch. Sweat-stained and threadbare, the underwear had clearly seen better days. She wrinkled her nose but forced herself not to judge. To each their own, she supposed.

This was definitely something she wouldn’t see back home. Sure, Charleston and Orlando had their share of eccentric beachgoers in bright board shorts and bikinis, but this? This was a whole different level of bizarre.

Moreover, the grungy fabric sagged off the rider’s sinewy frame, pooling on the seat of the unicycle and exposing the crack of his skinny ass to anyone inclined—or unfortunate enough—to notice. Jorie blanched and turned away quickly, determined not to see anything more.

She wasn’t a prude. Growing up as the princess of a motorcycle club had stripped away her blinders early on. But catching even the faintest glimpse of peddling Jesus’s twig and berries? Yeah, no. That was so not on her to-do list. Ever.

Pushing forward as quickly as the slow-moving herd allowed, Jorie flowed with the tide of bodies until she reached the entrance of the nearby Las Vegas Convention Center. Heaving a heartfelt sigh of relief, she veered under the sleek, wave-like awning—a far cry from the architecture back home—and pushed through the tempered glass doors into the relative cool and calm of the main lobby.

As luck would have it, the organizers of the prestigious Automobile and Motorcycle After-Market Customizations event—AMAC, to those in the know—had just finished equipping the registration tables. Jorie was delighted to learn she could pick up her welcome packet early. Perfect. She desperately needed to get her hands on the event map.

Earlier, she’d toured the facility while setting up her team’s booth and project display, so she had a general sense of the layout. Still, the map would be invaluable. After a quick check on their display—and stealing a few glances at others—Jorie squared her shoulders, steeled her nerves, and stepped back through the entrance doors into the chaos outside.

With single-minded focus, she navigated the sea of bodies and finally made it back to the sanctuary of her hotel room. Her prize—a neatly packed welcome kit tucked securely in her shoulder tote—was pressed firmly under her arm.

Phase One of Operation Freedom: executed.

She’d paid extra for the glossy brochure when she sent in her registration fee, and it was worth every penny. The brochure was a goldmine, showcasing all the sponsors and vendors, summarizing the workshops, and including detailed dossiers on the guest speakers and project review panelists. That extra thirty-five bucks? A small price to pay for something so valuable.

Though modest, this was her first—possibly only—published claim to fame, and Jorie was proud of the accomplishment. She could hardly wait to see her name in print. But she’d wait. There was no way she’d risk the brochure getting ruined by drunk or overzealous tourists.

Attending AMAC and presenting the project her team had poured their hearts into was a dream come true. Breaking into a male-dominated field hadn’t been easy. She’d dealt with her share of chauvinism, and while she was used to it, she neither liked it nor accepted it.

For a moment, Jorie wished she had someone special to share this moment with—someone who would appreciate and celebrate the occasion. But that, too, would have to wait. Sure, her twin sister Jolie would have loved to be here, but Jolie was tied up with semester finals in her own program.

The rest of Jorie’s family would have been proud and more than happy to spend a weekend in Vegas. But their presence? It would’ve put a damper on things—for her, at least. She adored her dad and his club, but she wasn’t about to let them steer her life—or guilt her into repeating past mistakes.

This moment wasn’t about her family or their expectations. This was about Jorie. Her dreams. Her life. And this time, she got to choose what to do with it.

A zing of excitement shot through her at the thought of being here. Twenty-three trade schools specializing in mechanics were participating in a pilot program designed to match graduates with potential employers. Jorie wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of being surrounded by more bossy, overprotective males, but if that was the price of success, she’d pay it. The guys on her project team had more than enough testosterone to navigate already.

For the past four years, Jorie had quietly waged a covert battle on two fronts.

She’d already graduated with honors in small engine repair and completed her required apprenticeship hours working for her dad at the marina and dry dock. That was before diving headfirst into the automotive program. She had years of hands-on experience under her belt. She’d been working in her family’s garage since she was twelve—starting with sweeping floors, cleaning the office, and scrubbing bathrooms. By the time shewas fifteen, she was assisting with detailed insurance appraisals and making real repairs.

College had been its own battlefield. It had taken weeks—months, really—for the boys in her automotive mechanics classes to figure out she didn’t need a penis to turn a wrench.

As for this project, the convention, and her role in it? She’d deliberately kept all of it under wraps when it came to her overwhelmingly male-dominated family. Some might call that a cowardly move. But for Jorie, it wasn’t evasion—it was strategy.

This was a stealth mission.

A mission she prayed would end in the declaration of her independence.

Chapter 2

---