S U M M E R
Working a shift at dad's store was usually my favorite time of the day. There were rarely customers in, but when there were, they knew what they were getting and got out quickly. None of them really dared spend more than five minutes in my presence, in fear of how I'd react if they brought up dad or August. Little did they know I'd be just fine, because when they left I'd be able to dive back into my book and forget they were there asking questions in the first place.
I was staring down at my book, reading an intense battle scene that had my breath heaving, leaning on the counter with my elbows, when someone cleared their throat over me. I jumped and gasped, nearly falling over. I hadn't heard anyone coming into the store; the bell usually tipped me off, but not this time. Apparently, I'd been way too engulfed in the story. When I looked into a pair of amused brown eyes, I crossed my arms and said, "Not funny, it's a matter of life and death!"
Before I could snatch the book up, Chris picked it up and lifted a brow as he started reading from the epic scene I was in the middle of. After a long minute, he lifted his eyes to me and said, "At least it wasn't anything embarrassing."
"Not until chapter fifty-five," I muttered under my breath as he handed the book back. I put on a smile and shoved my bookmark in, before I asked, "What can I help you with?"
"I came to pick up a power saw," he said with his deep and stomach-turning voice. The tiny hint of a smile that he had when he mentioned my book wasn't embarrassing was gone. I imagined he thought I was reading something spicy.
I shrugged with one shoulder, as if to show him how little interested I was, before I realized he told me that because I worked there, and I had to help him. The worst part was that I'd asked him what I could help with, and I'd forgotten. His eyes were pinned on me and I lost all focus.
"I noticed it was marked with a note this morning," I finally said, moving around the counter and away from him. It was like I could breathe again when I didn't have his eyes on me, but as soon as his heavy boots started thudding to the floor behind me, my mind blanked out.
August's handwriting was on the note attached to one of the big boxes with a saw inside. I didn't even know it was a saw until I looked closer and read the label. For a girl who'd been raised in this shop, I knew surprisingly little about the power tools we had. It didn't help that the man behind me made me practically squirm with his closeness either.
Everything about this stranger made me nervous, and I usually wasn't. His eyes were lingering—in a way that made my skin heat—and his demeanor was telling me to stay the hell away—like he'd definitely find a way to tell me off if I got too close—but all I really wanted was to get closer. I could tell he'd been burned by getting close to people before, and he preferred to be alone now.
Why else would he buy a house in the middle of nowhere?
Little did he know that this town was as nosy as a wine-drunk cougar in the suburbs. If he ever let anyone close enough for a casual chat, he'd know everything about everyone. Even me. Maybe that was what made me so nervous; maybe he'd already figured out I was a failure at everything I did and wanted nothing to do with me.
It wasn't that bad, of course. People just had a tendency to exaggerate. I chose to quit, and I chose to stay in River Hills. August wasn't the only one who didn't understand that wish, to say the least...
I was pulled back from the pit of my thoughts as Chris moved and picked up the huge, and probably heavy, box with ease. I was pretty sure my mouth was open when he looked at me, and raised a brow in question.
"Come on," I said, "I'll hold the door open and help you get it onto your truck."
"You trust me enough to walk out with it before paying?" His eyes gleamed for a second, and my stomach fluttered.
"I know where you live." I winked at him and turned around just in time for him to mutter, "Fair enough."
I was quick to hold the door open for him, thinking it would be painful for him to carry the monstrous thing for too long, and I walked up to open up the tailgate for him so he could slide it onto the bed with as much ease as when he picked it up from the floor.
Once the saw was secure on his truck, he nodded my way, without saying anything. He'd probably already overworked his tongue with the two sentences he'd said out loud so far. To be fair, it was three, but who was counting?
Not me.
I cleared my throat silently, trying to get rid of the rising tension in there as I walked back inside the shop and found my book on the counter where I left it. Chris followed, the loud thud of his boots making my spine chill. It was something else knowing a big brute of a man was walking behind me, and even more special was it to walk around the counter and face him, a loose strand of his dark brown hair coming out of the sleek pulled back look he was sporting. Probably from all the heavy lifting.
He was strong, without a doubt, and as he reached his arm out to hand me his card, I noticed the muscle in his forearm and imagined it holding around my waist as he pressed me into a wall. Like a willing prisoner inside his bulky cage.
My mouth was suddenly dry as I swiped his card and kept my eyes on the machine that took me ages to learn. I feared that if I looked at him again I'd end up with red cheeks, and I'd reveal my thoughts—though a part of me doubted he'd notice. He seemed as interested as a cactus, and when I'd finished charging him for the overly expensive tool, he barely even met my gaze as I smiled and thanked him for shopping at Bailey's.
Feeling brave, I asked, "Did you get that house to run away from something?"
"Excuse me?" He looked at me as if I'd grown three heads, or just simply caught him off guard with a way too personal question.
"Most visitors out here are running from something," I provided, shrugging, as I leaned my elbows on the counter. "Whether it's a crazy ex, mental health or something else entirely, I never really know before they disappear as quickly as they came."
Chris eyed me carefully, his brows turned down in a deep frown. "I'm not running," he said, his voice deeper. "I like the wilderness." He turned away from me, clearly finished with the conversation, and said, "Thanks," over his shoulder, like the polite gentleman he was.
As I leaned my chin on my hand and watched his bulky body move through my dad's shop, I found myself hoping he wasn't. But then the bell for the door chimed and I straightened up, picking my book back up, and forced myself to stop thinking about the manliness that reeked off him. It wasn't easy, but as soon as I was transported back into that nail-biting battle scene, the tattooed backside of his head was out of sight, out of mind.
I could barely see the road in front of me, through all the grass and moss and stones, between the dense forest around me. I swore just once when I realized the company that shipped Chris Moran's toilet had sent it to the store, and not him, and then my mind was filled with the opportunity I had to see him work on getting that house ready.
Even if I hated the stupid van. It was too big and bulky, and it always made me feel way too small when I drove it—mostly because I had to sit on the edge of the seat to reach the pedals, thanks to August's rebellious phase when he broke the seat. But I had no car of my own, and there was no way my brother would ever let me put a toilet into his relatively new sedan, no matter how much plastic was around it, and no matter how unused it was. So I was stuck with the white, sketchy van with Bailey's logo on the side.
Even the fixed headlights didn't do much inside the murkiness of the forest, but eventually I could see the sky again, along with light and Chris's large, black truck parked on some gravel. So I pulled up next to it, pulled up the handbrake and jumped out of the van before I could roll back down the small hill with it.
It wouldn't roll. It just felt like it.
I hoped it wouldn't.
Either way, I rounded the two cars and set course for the small house. There was a green and yellow tent set up on the front lawn, and I instantly felt a little sorry for the man. But he said he liked the wilderness, so maybe he enjoyed living in a tent.
I heard a huff, then I saw a large plank being tossed from the house and into a container, followed by a crash. I figured I wouldn't be heard if I stood down there, so I walked up the new-looking stairs, to the new-looking deck, and put my fist to the wall—since the door was nowhere to be seen.
Before I could say anything, I heard, rather than saw, a pair of heavy boots to the newly filled in floor. It didn't look perfect, but it looked a lot more sturdy than the pictures of the rotten wooden floor from the listing. I doubted even Chris's muscular legs would fall through the concrete he'd put down, and silently admired how much he'd done in such a short amount of time.
When he appeared in front of me, I ogled him. Rightfully so, may I add, because he was standing there with his shirt completely unbuttoned revealing a dark happy trail above some hard as rock abs, and his sleeves were cut off, like it got too hot to work in it and he just ripped them off at the shoulders. His arms were big and bulky, and my mouth was watering at the thought of having them around me—like I was some sort of horny teenager.
He didn't say anything—not that I expected him to—and just raised his eyebrows in question as he leaned against the doorframe. I wanted to advice against it, but he probably knew the house by now. So I said, "Hi, I'm sorry to bother you, but the company that sent your new toilet shipped it to the store, so I brought it over. You'll probably need it."
His nod was firm, calculating, as if he was wondering whether or not I could've called and have him pick it up. But then he pushed off the frame and gestured towards our cars. "That's some customer service," he said flatly, walking past me.
"Well, in a small town like this we gotta live off our good reputation," I replied, smiling widely as I followed him back to the gravel and opened up the back of the van. I leaned in, doing my best to pull the big, wrapped porcelain out of the back, wondering how the hell August and I got it in there in the first place, when he raised a brow at me.
"I've got it," he said, "thanks."
With ease, he pulled it to the edge and lifted it up like it was nothing. Again, he left me astounded by that strength, and I wondered where and why and how he'd gotten so much muscle. I knew right then and there that there was no steroids or anything in that body, just pure muscle and sheer willpower. Because without willpower, how else would he've even gotten so big?
I closed the back of the van, hugging myself to create a small shield against my own attraction, as I slowly followed him back up to the house. He sat the wrapped toilet down on top of the deck, next to where his door should've been, and stood up straight, stretching his arms as if it was heavy. It was heavy, it just didn't look that way when he carried it.
He probably felt it, even if he was the Hulk—but instead of green skin, he had a lovely golden tan that only came from people who were out in the sun most of the time. River Hills had sun, but not that kind of sun, so he had to have come from somewhere pretty far away.
Not running, my ass.
I almost chuckled at myself, but I managed to choke it and instead clear my throat. I no longer had a reason to stay or see his house, but I still had a question to ask him. So I stepped closer, bringing my arms down to seem less like I was protecting myself, and asked, "Would you want to join me for coffee?"
Even if he still didn't seem any more welcoming than a cactus, I wanted to ask. The worst thing that could happen was that he said no, kept throwing wood out of his slowly-getting-there house and lived in the wilderness alone. Best case scenario, he said yes and we'd live happily ever after, with my own personal Hulk who could spin me around and lift me and throw me while he made love to me like the goddess I was.
I almost scrunched my nose at my dirty thoughts, but come on...it was hard not to fantasize when his brown eyes met with mine and he raised a brow as if considering it. He seemed even less interested, somehow, so it surprised me when he said, "OK," and disappeared through the no-door-doorframe.
I didn't know what to do, so I just stood there like a question mark while I heard rustling inside. Then he came back, a new shirt covering his muscles and ink—and I suddenly wished I'd taken a better look at him—with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He didn't really seem like the plaid type, but the more I looked, the more I appreciated the view.
He didn't smile as he came down from the deck, and he didn't smile as he unlocked the truck, got in, started the engine and waited. I walked over to knock on the window, and when he opened it, I said, "I'll have to take the van back, but meet me at the café?"
He only nodded once before his truck started moving down the barely visible road, and I wondered if I'd just made a mistake. Not a huge one, I'd be seeing River Hills's best looking and most manly and most muscly man for a coffee, but a mistake nonetheless.
I got into the van, started it, and realized I had to press the clutch and shift gears so many times to be able to turn it around on the gravel, before I could follow Chris, with a huge sigh. I rolled my eyes at myself, and got to work. He was just a man. Nothing to be nervous about.