by L. B. Dunbar
“Name your price, Mr. Harrington,” I shout to his retreating back. He’s abandoned the wood pile and stalks toward the low porch. Without touching the first stair, he steps up to the platform, swallowed by the shade of the overhang. My eyes are fixated on two firm globes filling out his Carhartt pants. Oh my. Within seconds, he’s disappeared inside the cabin, closing the door on my proposal.
Well, that certainly didn’t go as planned.
2
No Sale. Maybe.
[Giant]
Who the fuck was she?
I’m still pondering the answer to that question as I return to the main house on Mountain Spring Lane—nicknamed the Lane by those of us who grew up on it. I’m still fired up over that insect of a woman, chirping away, asking questions, and wanting me to sell. Ha.
“Who sent that woman up the mountain?” I bark. I hold back the profanity itching to explode out of my mouth, knowing my mama would still whoop my ass for such words.
“Giant, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elaina Harrington says all sugar sweet and false honey. My mother is the queen of nosy, and from the look on her face, she’s put her nose where it doesn’t belong. I didn’t need to stop at the house, but I was passing the Lane on my way back to town.
“Better question is why would you think I’d sell the cabin?” My mother believes I spend too much time up there hiding out to avoid life. Unfortunately for her, I don’t care what she thinks. The cabin is mine, and I’m not avoiding anything. I like it up there. In the peace and quiet, I’m away from my mother’s attempt to intervene in my life. For God’s sake, I’m almost fifty.
She doesn’t miss a beat as she sets the dining room table. I internally sigh. The size of the spread means my younger sister will be coming over with her new beau—or rather her former best friend, newly returned to finally profess his love for my baby sister some twenty-years later. The bloom of love my sister has found after the death of her husband has my mother playing matchmaker for me. The formality of the dinner plates hints that more than Mati and Denton will be joining us. My mother hasn’t answered my question before I add, “Who’s coming to dinner, the queen?”
I shouldn’t ask.
“Mati’s friend, Alyce Wright. She’s perfect.” For you. I don’t have to hear the words to know what she isn’t saying. My mother straightens from setting down the knives and looks up at me. “You know, it could happen again.” Her voice softens. She’s wrong, and this isn’t up for discussion—again. Damn Mati for being happy.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I snap a little harsher than I intend, but my mother’s matchmaking efforts piss me off. Or maybe it’s the little spark inside my chest at that firecracker of a woman spewing her offer.
Name your price, Mr. Harrington.
As I told her, no sale. There isn’t enough money in the world to take the land off my hands, but my irritation ignites from more than her pecking away at me with her fancy marketing jargon. It’s the look she was giving me. Her bright blue eyes narrowed in on my chest, walking their way down my midsection and landing at my zipper. I had a little fun with her without intending to do it in that respect. She didn’t even flinch at getting caught, just looked as if she might be hungry. She probably eats nails for breakfast. I snort to myself. A pretty brunette like her, all city slicked up in her dark suit and heels, isn’t going to go for someone like me, even if I do have money to my name.
The money is of no consequence. I’m a fourth generation Harrington. Fourth generation George Harrington, to be specific. The second at the end of my name marks I’m the son to the junior, named after his daddy. We’re beer men, making it behind barn doors until it became legal to craft beer in Georgia. Our granddad used to joke we were here before Georgia began. Giant Brewing Company is our brand, and I’m the chief executive operator under my so-called retired father.
“Mama,” I say exasperated, and she sets a vase of flowers down with more force than necessary.
“Fine, I sent her up the path.” My mother doesn’t look at me. She knows that land means everything to me, and while she understands why, she doesn’t understand how I can spend so much time up there. I don’t want to have to remind her it’s my life. I’m forty-nine. She can stop mother-henning me.
I spin and head for the front door. I have a house closer to town, one I avoid most days since I find solitude up at the cabin. Who cares? I want to scream. I’m alone anyway. Empty nester, that’s the term, although I think I’ve been empty for longer than the absence of my daughters going off to college and moving on with their lives. It’s the way it should be with my girls, yet lately, I feel as if I’ve missed too much.
“Giant,” my mother calls after me, a warning in her voice. “You be here for dinner at six.”
I won’t disappoint her, but I want to. For once, I’d like to do something spontaneous and not show up to a family dinner or a matchmaking setup or a pre-scheduled anything. I’m free to do as I please with my days, yet as I approach fifty, I feel trapped. As if something’s crawling under my skin wanting to be released.
My thoughts rush back to the bug of a woman leaning over her car, trying to appear all tough but instead looking adorable as her wide eyes skim down my body. Wonder what she would have thought if I placed her on her little silver hood and kissed her senseless just because I could and I wanted to?
Whoa. I slow my F-150 truck with the large Giant Brewing Co. logo on the side as I near the gravel lane heading to town. Where did that thought come from? My palms sweat on the steering wheel. It’s been a while since I’ve been with a woman, but still, she’s a stranger. I don’t know her. I don’t even want to know her, I admonish, but something taps at my skull.
Yes, you do, whispers through my thick head. I shake the thought.
Whoever she was, she talked too much. But then there were her eyes—bright and blue as the day—and the way she scanned my body. Hungry—that was the look. It was a nice look.
She also had that fierce attitude as though she wouldn’t accept anything less than what she wanted.
Name your price, Mr. Harrington.
I’ll give her a price: no sale.
Never mind my subtle attraction to her. I’m not going to know her because I’m not parting with my land. That property is special to me in a way no piece of ass will ever be, and besides, I don’t want a piece of ass. If I need to get laid, I can go down to Elton. When was the last time I got laid? I mentally count back as if flipping sheets on a calendar.
Cripes. It has been a bit.
My dick whimpers in my outdoor pants when thoughts of a chirpy brunette with big blue eyes matching the sky come into play. Down boy, I curse, and then decide against the reprimand. The image of her pretty little mouth begging me for my land—begging me for anything—will make my shower-time fodder all the faster this evening.
And I’m going to need a release before another matchmaking session from my mother.
3
Proverbial gauntlets and
other hammering instruments
[Letty]
“It didn’t go well,” I tell Marcus as I stand in the fluffy bathrobe provided by the Conrad Lodge. A thick towel swipes over my hair as I hear Marcus sigh through the speakerphone.
“Letty, you have to secure this place. This is your future we’re talking about.” If Marcus wasn’t forty, like me, I’d swear he was an old man or my dad. Too bad my father is dead, and Uncle Frank is the only father figure I’ve ever had.
“I know.” I exhale as I toss the towel aside and then throw myself on the extra-high mattress in the four-poster bed. Who sleeps on such a thing? Then I consider the giant of a man I saw earlier in the day. Giant. What an interesting name. It certainly suits his stature. “We didn’t get off to a good start.”
“What did you do?” he singsongs, assuming it’s my fault. Then again, most errors in my life are. Hudson was the biggest mistake.
“I almost hit him with my car.”
&nb
sp; “What?” Marcus shrieks, releasing the mother in him. He wants to be a parent with his partner, so he understands my struggles. We aren’t getting any younger as my mother likes to remind us.
“It would have been a little love tap. Not even marking him.” Thinking of his long legs, I’m curious about their thickness within those low-slung pants. They’re the size of tree trunks, I surmise, proportionate to the rest of his body.
“Letty, way to make a first impression.”
That’s just it. I botched my first impression—nearly running over a man will do that. But in general, I struggle with sales as my career. I’m not good at introductions. I go in for the kill too quickly because I want the haggle process over. I also don’t make a lasting impression, which is why I’ve failed at life.
Sigh.
“You need to go back to him with blazing saddles and double barrels and those big breasts of yours.”
I laugh. “Marcus, there isn’t one drop of hope that man is interested in my breasts.”
“Oh, and do you want him to be?” The tweak to his tone and the higher octave bring visions of an eyebrow raised in question. Did I want Mr. Lumbersexy-and-steamy to be interested in my breasts? No, of course not. Absolutely not. That would be unprofessional, inappropriate, and not plausible.
“No.” I chuckle. “But I do want his land.”
“And how hung is his land?”
I laugh outright at the poor euphemism. I couldn’t even guess at the expanse of his land as it’s been almost a year since I’ve experienced the private property of another person. Damn Hudson. The thought sobers me.
“I need to obtain his land.”
“Now, you’re talking, honey.”
“No, I mean the actual property. The Harrington cabin and surrounding woods need to become mine.”
Marcus remains quiet for a moment. “And what are you willing to risk to possess his wood?” He’s still speaking in innuendos, but I’m not playing.
“Anything,” I say breathlessly. Anything.
The declaration is reinforced when the next call I receive is from my uncle Frank.
“Olivet,” he snaps sharp on the third syllable of my name. “How did it go today?” From his tone, it’s clear he’s concerned I can’t get the job done, and he isn’t off in his assessment. I begged for this deal.
Give me a chance. I wanted to prove I could do this, but most of all, I wanted the contract. I need the commission a property this size would offer.
“I’m still working on Mr. Harrington, Mr. Mullen.” Uncle Frank doesn’t care for me to call him uncle in the office. He doesn’t want to appear to play favorites with family members even though he clearly doesn’t when it comes to me and clearly does when it comes to my older sister. But Uncle Frank has a soft spot for his sister, my mother. She was married to his best friend, who died too young from cancer, and Frank promised my father he’d look after us. He does value family even if he doesn’t say it. It’s a strange duality to his personality. But money is his first love.
“Work harder, Olivet,” he demands. There is no confidence boosting. No words of encouragement. He doesn’t believe I can pull off this deal, so I’m surprised he even gave me the opportunity. Perhaps he believes when I fail, my lack of sales ability and partner potential will be proven once and for all.
You pull this off, and we’ll finally talk partner. Like a child, I swallowed up his promise. For some reason, I want to make him proud although I don’t like him much—as a boss or an uncle. Still, I can’t dismiss all he’s done for our family.
I sigh with the thought.
“Yes, sir. I’m meeting with Mr. Harrington again tomorrow.”
“Well, shut that deal down. We need you back in the office.”
Why? I wonder. Does he need more coffee? Maybe another copy made? A contract signature that he’s too lazy to get on his own?
“I’ll be on it first thing.”
“Anything you need to do,” he warns.
Anything, I repeat as the line goes dead.
+ + +
The following day, I return to the Harrington cabin with renewed determination. I’m only supposed to be in Blue Ridge for a few days. I could stretch it a week, but the longer I’m away from home, the more I worry my backstabbing nemesis Dayna will steal prospects out from under me. Real estate can be a ruthless business, especially if you’re good at wheeling and dealing like Dayna is. Plus, my sister is getting married in two weeks. Thinking of these things fuel my spirit, and after getting lost only once, I arrive at the secluded cabin with fortitude and fierceness, to be deflated when I find no sign of George—Giant—Harrington.
“Now what?” I mutter, looking around the small span of flat land surrounding the cabin before deep woods take over the landscape to the front and a sharp slope rises up the back. The mountain climb looks easy enough, inviting actually, but it’s been a while since I’ve hiked anywhere other than the nearest Starbucks. Blue Ridge doesn’t have a Starbucks, but thank goodness the local bakery has good coffee. I set the second cup beside me and hold mine in both my hands. It isn’t cold here, but there’s a chill to the air. Though I’m dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, my booties still don’t cut it on the uneven ground. My toes tap on the wooden step as I allow myself a seat on the porch and take a moment to let the quiet surround me.
As a city girl, born and bred, the silence is eerie. I need a plane overhead, a train in the distance, and a car horn honking down the street, but there’s something to be said for the peacefulness. Closing my eyes for a second, I feel as if I can hear the few clouds in the sky move in the slight breeze.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The gruff, masculine voice startles me, and I’m thankful for the lid on my coffee even though drops slosh out of the sipping piece. Hot splatters of coffee stain my jeans, and I’d feel the burn if it wasn’t for the glacial stare and giant boulder of a man blocking out the sun.
“Well, good morning to you, too,” I say, cheerfully, trying my best not to cower under his pinched glare.
Be brave. Be strong. I repeat the chant Marcus sang before ending our phone call the previous night.
As I look up at Giant, his presence says he’s a million times stronger than me, and it’s more than his physique. His body language screams command and control, and I briefly wonder what it would be like to have that energy focused on me. My breasts tingle as my breathing labors. My core clenches, and I force my knees together.
“I brought you a coffee,” I say, realizing my fingers shake as I reach for the second cup sitting next to my hip and lift it toward him.
Looking off in the distance, he crosses his arms over his massive chest, displaying those bulging biceps once again. His stature says he’s trying to shut me out. He’s dressed in a flannel today, covering the awesome body underneath the clothing. Too bad. But then again, from my vantage point, I’m eye level with another area of him, and it’s a struggle to keep my eyes upward. I’m suddenly thinking about the size of his property and the lay of his land. The width. The girth. The length. Damn Marcus for his innuendos.
“You’d have to do better than a cup of coffee to butter me up.” For a moment, I want to believe he’s teasing me. Did his voice lower? Is he holding back a laugh? What would a deep chuckle sound like from a man of his size? How much would it rock my world if he gave his laughter to me?
“Yeah, and what would a woman have to do to butter your biscuit?” I joke, fully aware I mean myself and fully aware he has no interest in me. As a woman. As a human being. In fact, when he turns his head back in my direction, I’m convinced he thinks I’m an alien, and he’s ready to report me to the Department of Defense for unidentified objects.
“Do you know anything about these woods?” he asks, surprising me as his face softens and his voice dips. I know the specs of the area. The property survey reports it’s a nice chunk. We’re hopeful of securing the woods on either side of this place to offer a decent spread of land
to our prospective investor. I’m ready to spew all the particulars, but the way he holds my gaze tells me he’s asking me something else, something deeper, and I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for his question.
“Why don’t you tell me about them?” I pat a hand on the decking of the porch where I’ve made myself comfortable. It is comfortable, I note. Quiet. Pretty. The view before me isn’t too bad either.
He harrumphs and gazes away from me for another second. His arms remain crossed, but his shoulders slump, and I’m almost disappointed. I like our little game, and I don’t want him to give in to me too easily.
What am I thinking? I curse myself. Of course, I want him to make this as easy as possible. Just look into my eyes and give me what I want. I will the energy out into the universe and almost fall back when his eyes immediately return to mine. The dark chocolaty orbs have turned midnight, and a spark flares in them.
Oh no, I think without knowing what I’m oh-no-ing about.
“Want my land so badly?” he begins, and I’m about to interject, giving away my desperation for this sliver of space, but he continues. “What do you even know about this land?”
“I—” He holds up a hand to cut me off before I can even form a thought.
“Have you ever spent a night under the stars? Or bathed in a stream? Have you seen a bear cub with its mother? Or what about hiking in the peacefulness of nature, listening to the birds sing?
“I…” This time, my voice fades, and I don’t know how to respond to him. “I went to Girl Scout camp when I was ten.”
He stares at me as if I’ve just told him I can speak Martian.
“Before you try to steal my land, perhaps you should learn a thing or two about it.”
I stare up at him as his expression turns virile.
“I know this piece of property could earn you millions.” I look beyond him, taking in the small bit of landscape I can see around his broad hips and crossed arms.
