Page 1 of Kissing the Boss
Chapter 1 – Cassandra
Of course my car dies in the middle of a fairy tale.
Steam billows from under the hood as I coast to a stop, right in the heart of Acorn Circle where the entire town of Whitetail Falls has gathered for the Fall Festival. Through my fogging windshield, I watch families strolling past vendor booths draped in twinkling lights, couples sharing caramel apples, children clutching balloon animals.
"No, no, no." I smack the steering wheel. "Not today. Please not today."
The engine gives one last pathetic wheeze and falls silent.
Perfect. My fresh start in a new town, and I'm blocking traffic in front of what looks like the entire population.
A knock on my window makes me jump. An elderly woman in a hand-knit pumpkin sweater peers at me with concern. Behind her, a small crowd is gathering.
I roll down the window manually and force a smile. "Hi. Sorry. Just a little car trouble."
"Oh, honey, you're right in the middle of everything!" She glances back at the growing bottleneck of festival-goers trying to navigate around my smoking car. "Let me call Jonathan for you. He'll have you sorted in no time."
Before I can ask who Jonathan is, she's already on her phone, chatting away like we're old friends. This is small-town life, I remind myself. The very reason I wanted to move here.
Well, that and the job that starts tomorrow. The job I'll miss if I can't get my car fixed.
Ten minutes later, I'm standing beside my deceased vehicle, trying to look like I have some idea what I'm staring at under the hood. The autumn air nips at my cheeks, carrying the scent of cinnamon donuts and apple cider from the festival booths.
I'm so focused on pretending to understand engines that I don't hear the tow truck arrive until a deep voice speaks behind me.
"Having a rough day?"
I spin around and nearly swallow my tongue.
The man standing there looks like he stepped out of a lumberjack calendar, the really good kind that hangs in break rooms and makes productivity plummet. Worn jeans sit low on narrow hips. A grey t-shirt stretches across broad shoulders and a chest that clearly sees manual labor. Dark hair peeks out from under a cap, and his jaw sports the kind of stubble that would feel delicious against skin.
But it's his eyes that stop my brain from functioning—grey-blue like storm clouds.
"That obvious?" I manage.
His lips twitch. "The smoke was a clue."
"Right. The smoke." I tuck a curl behind my ear, acutely aware that I'm wearing my ratty road-trip clothes and no makeup. "I don't suppose you could just... make it stop doing that?"
"Afraid it's not that simple." He moves past me to look under the hood, bringing with him the scent of motor oil. "Jonathan. I own the garage on Pine Street."
"Cassandra Green. I own the car that's ruining everyone's festival."
This time he does smile, just a quick flash that transforms his whole face. "Could be worse. Last year someone's float caught fire during the parade. This is barely a inconvenience."
"Somehow that doesn't make me feel better about blocking traffic."
He glances at the crowd navigating around us. "Small town. They're used to working around obstacles. Mrs. Hayworth there?" He nods toward a woman power-walking past with a massive pumpkin. "She once parallel parked around a moose."
A laugh bubbles up despite my mortification. "A moose?"
"Wandered into town last spring. Decided the parking spot in front of the post office was the perfect place for a nap."
"And she just... parked around it?"
"Nothing stops Mrs. Hayworth from her appointed rounds." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Not rain, not snow, not massive woodland creatures."
The tension in my chest eases slightly. "You're making that up."
