Page 1 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
1
Melanie
It’s supposed to be an easy drive.
Supposed to bebeing the operative phrase.
Charlotte and Asher invited me up to their new cabin in the mountains to help with the dog rescue this weekend—snap some photos for social, get these pups some exposure, and maybe escape the nonstop DM storm that’s been my life lately. Honestly, I need this break. Fresh air. Fuzzy faces. My best friend. It soundedperfect.
Absolutely perfect.
Until my tire decided it had other plans.
I’d been jamming out to a feel-good playlist, the pine trees blurring past my window, when the unmistakablewhump, whump, whumphit like a hammer. The car wobbled. My heart stopped. I managed to pull over onto a skinny patch of gravel shoulder, the mountain road dipping sharply on one side, winding into green oblivion on the other.
I turn off the engine, sigh dramatically, and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. “Seriously? You had one job.”
My phone shows one lonely bar of service. Just enough to text Charlotte and hope for the best.
Me:Hey, got a flat. Of course. I’ll be late.
Charlotte:Oh no! You okay? Want me and Asher to come get you?
Me:I’m okay. Trying to figure out the tire situation. Will update.
Right. The tire situation.
I open the trunk and stare blankly at the sad excuse for an emergency kit, realizing two critical things:
1.I’ve never changed a tire in my life.
2.I don’t have a spare.
Cue another dramatic sigh. I lean against the side of the car, arms folded, debating whether to post a tragic “stranded” selfie when the rumble of a big engine draws my attention.
A truck—a gorgeous black pickup with a slight lift—slows as it approaches, window rolling down. A man leans out, framed by golden afternoon light. He appears tall, broad shoulders filling the cab, aviators perched on a ruggedly handsome face, dark stubble tracing his jawline.
“Well, you look like you could use a hand,” he says, voice deep and smooth as honey over gravel.
I blink.Why does this stuff never happen when I’m dressed to impress?I’m in yoga pants, an oversized sweatshirt, and a messy top knot that would make even a rescue pup cringe.
“Uh—yeah. Flat tire. No spare. Rookie mistake,” I say with a sheepish grin.
He pulls the truck fully onto the shoulder behind me and steps out. And wow,wow—heistall. Six-three, maybe six-four. Dark hair shoved back. Fitted jeans, worn boots, and a plain gray tee that hugs every inch of a broad chest and lean waist.
I catch myself staring and snap into influencer mode. Friendly smile. Polite banter. “You wouldn’t happen to have a miracle in that truck, would you?”
He chuckles, the sound rich and easy. “I’ve got tools, but having no spare’s gonna be tricky.” His gaze flicks to my rental, then back at me. “You headed up the mountain?”
“Yeah. My best friend and her husband’s place. They run a dog rescue.”
His brow lifts. “Don’t suppose your friend’s husband is Asher Hawke?”
I blink again, caught off guard. “Uh—yeah. Why?”
The man grins, crossing his arms. “Because Asher’s my boss.”
My jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”
