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Jordyn

My phone buzzes for the fifth time in twenty minutes. Mom, again. I toss it onto the passenger seat without looking. Whatever crisis she's having about my "impulsive life choices" can wait until I'm ready to deal with it—which might be never.

The Range Rover's navigation system keeps trying to reroute me to the main highway, clearly confused by my deliberate choice to take the scenic route.

I ignore its persistent chiming, just like I'm ignoring my family.

The mountain road curves ahead, revealing patches of aspen trees turning brilliant gold against the evergreens.

I crack my window and breathe in air that doesn't smell like designer perfume or my father's imported cigars.

Freedom. Finally.

Three weeks ago, I broke things off with Bradley Wells after two years of dating.

He checked every box on my parents' "perfect match" list: heir to Wells Investment Group, Ivy League education, country club membership, and a family pedigree that matched our own.

The look on my mother's face when I told her—part horror, part fury—was almost worth the social suicide. Almost.

"You'll regret this, Jordyn," she'd said, lips barely moving as she maintained her perfect smile for the benefit of anyone watching. "He was perfect."

Perfect for the daughter they wanted. Perfect for Jordyn Montgomery, future VP of Montgomery Luxury Real Estate, wife of Bradley Wells, mother to 2.5 perfectly dressed children who would attend the right schools and make the right connections.

But I'm twenty-five, and I'm suffocating.

So here I am, driving into the Colorado mountains to a cabin I rented on an app with my own credit card—possibly the first truly independent decision I've made since choosing my college major.

Even that had been guided by subtle pressure.

"Marketing is so versatile, darling. Perfect for when you join the family business. "

My phone buzzes again. This time it's a text from Bradley.

Your parents are worried. Just call them, J. You're being impulsive again.

Translation: Be reasonable, Jordyn. Come back to the path we've all agreed is best for you.

I switch the phone to silent and toss it into my purse.

The GPS informs me I'm thirty minutes from my destination, but my growling stomach and the fuel gauge hovering near a quarter tank suggest a stop might be wise.

When I spot the weathered wooden sign for "Rocky Mountain Rest Stop" ahead, I signal (a habit my father drilled into me even when no one's around to see) and turn in.

The parking lot is half-filled with massive semis, their chrome gleaming in the afternoon sun.

My vehicle looks almost comically out of place next to these beasts—like a pampered poodle among wolves.

I feel a little thrill at the thought. This is exactly what I wanted: something real, unscripted, unprogrammed by my family's expectations.

I check my reflection in the visor mirror—a habit I'm trying to break—and realize I'm still wearing the pearl earrings Mom gave me for my twenty-first birthday.

I remove them, dropping them into the console.

My honey-blonde hair is falling out of its perfect blow-out after hours of driving with the windows occasionally open. Good. Let it be messy.

The truck stop is nothing like the carefully curated rustic-chic mountain cafés in Whistler where my family vacations.

This place has actual rust. The neon "OPEN" sign buzzes and flickers.

A bell jingles as I push open the door, and the scent of coffee, grease, and something indefinably authentic hits me. I love it immediately.

Inside, a handful of people occupy the vinyl booths—mostly men in work clothes, a couple of tired-looking families. No one pays me any attention, which is refreshing after a lifetime of being Jordyn Montgomery, daughter of Richard and Eleanor.

I head to the counter, eyes drawn to the display case of pies with hand-written labels. "Homemade," the sign boasts. Not artisanal, not craft, not small-batch. Just homemade . I'm oddly charmed.

"Coffee, please," I tell the middle-aged waitress whose name tag reads 'Darlene'. "And what pie would you recommend?"

"Apple's fresh this morning," she says, already pouring coffee into a mug that's seen better days. I notice the chipped edge and find myself appreciating its imperfection.

"Perfect."

As I wait for my pie, I become aware of the guy beside me at the counter. Not next to me—there are two empty stools between us—but close enough that he enters my peripheral vision like a storm front.

He's big. That's my first impression. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the solid build of someone who uses his body for actual work, not just carefully programmed personal training sessions.

His flannel shirt has the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair and faded tattoos.

A worn baseball cap shadows his face, but I can see enough to note the stubbled jaw, the straight nose, the set of his mouth as he scowls into his coffee cup like it's personally offended him.

Something about him makes me straighten my back. He's probably over forty, definitely not the kind of man my mother would approve of me noticing. Which makes me notice him more.

"Beautiful country up here," I say, aiming for casual conversation but hearing the too-polished edge in my voice—the one I use at charity galas and business mixers.

He doesn't look up, just grunts something that might be agreement. Or indigestion.

Darlene slides a generous slice of pie in front of me, the scent of cinnamon and apples rising with the steam. "Enjoy, honey."

"Thank you." I take a bite and can't help the small sound of appreciation that escapes. It's actually homemade, not pretending to be.

The man beside me shifts, and I catch him giving me a sidelong glance. His eyes are blue. Not the carefully cultivated blue of Bradley's tailored shirts, but something deeper and wilder, like mountain lakes I've seen in travel magazines.

Something in my chest flutters.

"First time in the mountains?" I joke, trying again despite his obvious lack of interest.

This time he actually looks at me, a full assessment that makes me feel stripped bare in a way that Bradley's gaze never did in two years of dating. I resist the urge to check if my hair is out of place.

"Not looking for company, princess," he says, voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the counter between us. He tosses a few bills down, nods to Darlene, and slides off his stool.

I watch him walk out, like a predator passing through territory too small to interest him. The bell jingles with a finality that echoes in the now-quiet diner.

I should be offended. Princess ? But instead, I find myself fighting a smile as I turn back to my pie. There was something refreshing about his dismissal—no pretense, no social niceties, no carefully calibrated response designed to make the right impression or maintain the right connection.

Just honest disinterest. Or maybe not completely disinterested, given that look.

Through the window, I watch him climb into an enormous black semi with silver detailing. The truck gleams despite the dirt of the road, clearly well-maintained. As he pulls out of the lot, I catch the name painted on the door: "Eleanor."

Eleanor. Like my mother. The coincidence makes me laugh.

Outside, the mountains are turning purple with approaching dusk.

My cabin waits somewhere among them, the first step in my undefined journey toward becoming someone other than the Jordyn Montgomery everyone expects me to be.

And for some reason, I can't help thinking about blue eyes and a gruff voice calling me "princess. "

I finish my pie, leave a tip that makes Darlene's eyebrows rise, and head back to my SUV. As I pull back onto the winding road, I realize I'm smiling. Really smiling, not the camera-ready version I've perfected over years of family photos and society events.

Maybe this impulse trip wasn't such a bad idea after all. Maybe up here, among strangers who don't know my name or care about my family connections, I'll finally figure out who I am when no one's watching.

And if I happen to run into a certain grumpy trucker again... well, that might make things interesting.