Page 1 of Ignited By My Mate

ONE

Lark

There’s something magical about the way pine tree branches sway gently in the breeze. It’s like they’re dancing, welcoming me to this small town, and I smile as I pull my little hatchback onto the gravel road that leads into the small town of Twisted Oak.

I crack the window open and breathe deep, hoping the fresh air will wash away months—years, really—of stress. It’s been five years since I’ve taken a real vacation.

Not a long weekend. Not a “working retreat.” A full, guilt-free, zero-inbox, no-expectations vacation. And I’ve earned this after five years of back-to-back campaigns, executive-level meetings, and twelve-hour days in the marketing world.

More like crawled across broken glass for it.

I clutch the steering wheel a little tighter as my car bounces along the gravel road leading into Twisted Oak, the small mountain town I found almost by accident on a late-night internet spiral six months ago. The photos online were too perfect—rolling green hills, log cabins nestled in trees, a town square that looked like something out of a Christmas card. It didn’t feel real.

But I booked it anyway. A one-week solo escape in the middle of nowhere. No email. No meetings. No constant Slack notifications buzzing in my skull. Just me, a stack of unread paperbacks, and a cozy rental cabin in the woods.

I follow the GPS’s cheery voice until it announces, “You’ve arrived at your destination.”

I blink at the screen.

“No, I haven’t,” I mutter, squinting through the windshield.

Then at the scene in front of me.

This… can’t be right.

I put the car in park and climb out, my sandals crunching against loose gravel. The fresh air slaps me in the face—in a good way. But the feeling doesn't last as I stare at the building in front of me.

Well,what’s left of it, anyway.

It’s… destroyed.

The cabin I rented—paid for in full, thank you very much—is half charred. The front porch is scorched black. The left side of the roof is caved in like someone crushed it with a giant fist. The windows are boarded up. Smoke stains trail up the siding like claw marks. A length of yellow caution tape flutters in the breeze, and a weather-worn sign reads:UNSAFE – DO NOT ENTER.

I stare at the charred mess, my jaw slowly dropping open. This is supposed to be my vacation spot. The place I spent months daydreaming about while pushing ad deadlines and sitting through presentations about “synergistic market opportunities.” I paid in full. I bought new hiking boots. I made a Pinterest board for crying out loud.

“What the actual hell?” I whisper.

I snatch my phone from the cupholder, fingers trembling as I scroll through emails. My booking confirmation is right there—Everpine Cabins, unit four, reservation confirmed. No cancellations. No follow-up notices. Definitely no “Hey, sorry your cabin caught fire” email.

I tap the contact number. Straight to voicemail.

I try again. And again. Still nothing.

Leaning against the car, I close my eyes and press my forehead to the warm metal roof.

This was supposed to be the week I reset. Reconnect with myself. Figure out what the hell I want from life now I’ve finally admitted I don’t want to climb any more corporate ladders. My hands are still sore from gripping the last one too tightly. I didn’t come here to be stressed.

I breathe deeply. One. Two. Three.

Okay, so the cabin’s a no-go. But I’m not totally screwed. I can find a local café or bar, get some Wi-Fi, find another place to stay. It’s a small town. People are usually friendly in small towns, right?

Back in the car, I crank the A/C and start back to what passes for the center of Twisted Oak. The town is nestled in a valley, a cluster of buildings that look like they were hand-carved from cedar and good intentions. I spot a gas station that looks like it used to be an old cabin. A carved wooden bear holds a welcome sign like he means it.

It’s adorable. And exactly what I need.

I park, grab my purse, and head inside.

The door chimes as I enter, and I’m hit with a blast of cool air and the smell of coffee and motor oil. The inside looks like a rustic fever dream—wooden shelves stacked with everything from toilet paper to honeycomb candy, postcards of deer and lakes, and a menu above the counter boasting homemade chili and daily pie specials.

---