by Nicole Snow
No Gentle Giant
A Small Town Romance
Nicole Snow
Ice Lips Press
Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America.
First published in June, 2021.
Disclaimer: The following book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may have to real people is only coincidental.
Please respect this author's hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. Exception for brief quotations used in reviews or promotions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!
Cover Design – CoverLuv. Photo by Joseph Cannata.
Contents
About the Book
1. No Gold Rush Town (Felicity)
2. All That Glitters (Alaska)
3. Black Gold (Felicity)
4. Gold Medal (Alaska)
5. More Precious Than (Felicity)
6. Fool’s Gold (Alaska)
7. Worth Its Weight In (Felicity)
8. The Gold Standard (Alaska)
9. Working In The Gold Mine (Felicity)
10. The Golden Rule (Alaska)
11. Silence Is Golden (Felicity)
12. Striking Gold (Alaska)
13. Heart of Gold (Felicity)
14. Forged in Gold (Alaska)
15. The Golden Touch (Felicity)
16. Gilded Cage (Alaska)
17. All That Glistens (Felicity)
18. Chained in Gold (Alaska)
19. Tarnished Gold (Felicity)
20. Gold Dust (Alaska)
21. Going for the Gold (Felicity)
22. Lead Into Gold (Alaska)
23. Gold Digger (Felicity)
24. The Gold Touch (Alaska)
25. Purer Than Gold (Felicity)
26. The Golden Ticket (Alaska)
27. Wishing On A Golden Star (Felicity)
28. The Golden Word (Alaska)
Preview: No White Knight
About Nicole Snow
More Books by Nicole
About the Book
You know the drill. Big hands, big feet, humongous—
Yikes. We're not going there for the thousandth time.
I've got small-town problems aplenty and zero time for Paxton “Alaska” Charter.
Crushing on smokeshow men with caveman vibes can't end well.
Sure, he saved my little coffee shop from total ruin once.
Yes, my ovaries melt watching single dad of the century with his little boy.
Of course, I'd sleep like a baby if I let him work his former SEAL hero magic on my mess.
That's not why I'm freaking out.
Nobody told me how devastatingly kind Alaska can be.
Or the fact that his stubborn heart's even more guarded than mine.
If he comes barreling into my life, it's certain doom.
And it's all thrown to the wind the day his kiss claims me.
We have to say goodbye. Right now. Before it's too late.
He can't keep sheltering my body, stealing my heart, and igniting my soul.
I won't drag this gentle giant down my abyss of ugly secrets.
But Alaska has other plans—and they scare me.
Because they all involve impossible happily ever afters, no matter the cost.
1
No Gold Rush Town (Felicity)
There’s one rule, and one rule only, that holds steady in my life.
When things are going too good, it’s got to be bad.
Some folks win the lottery. They find love, fortune, fame, whatever they’re after, and it comes to them nice and easy-peasy.
Like putting in a mail-order for happiness and getting it delivered right to their front door—a shiny golden lump of giddy perfection, all signed, sealed, and delivered.
But for me?
Nope. That gold’s always turned out false, ugly, and made for fools.
And I’d be a ginormous fool to believe my current run of good luck isn’t about to turn around and kick me in the face with a karmic force that could rival a bull.
So, maybe that’s why I don’t know what to do with the fact that business at my little café is just about jumping through the roof.
The steady stream of happy customers, from regulars to tourists, just keeps coming.
Solid revenues that keep me in the black instead of familiar crisis red.
It’s shaping up to be a nice little nest egg—no pun intended, when my place is actually called The Nest—left over from the run of winter snow bunnies.
Plus, my latest side venture. Roasting my own beans and selling them online at a premium markup is going pretty well. Even with the discount I give my friend Clarissa Regis to keep the new Chicago branch of her expanding Sweeter Things shops well supplied, co-branding as Sweeter Grind.
I should be overjoyed. Breaking out a birthday party kazoo. Toasting my fortune with a strong tropical drink that has a fun roller coaster for a straw.
With all the trouble I’ve had just keeping the lights on at The Nest...this is a freaking miracle, and I should be freaking out with joy.
Instead? I’m looking over my shoulder with bated breath.
Just waiting for that other shoe to drop like a thundering jackboot.
Sooner or later, it always does.
Trust me.
This won’t last.
I’ve kinda learned to enjoy the little moments I have before they’re torn away from me.
If living in the moment is a survival mechanism, then it’s serving me well. This temporary calm right here, right now, has me pretty content.
The soft lights illuminate the intimate little clusters of customers gathered around for a little chatting and a lot of coffee. The fragrant scents of their brews—from bitter dark to blond and sugary-sweet—fill the café from wall to wall.
Call me weird, but I can smell every last nuance of my drinks, and remember what touches created that exact smell.
That little sprinkle of nutmeg and the dash of vanilla in a foamy cappuccino.
The heavy cream making that latte a little smoother, a little richer, a little closer to heaven.
The precision needed to make a dark roast that strong and bold, not bitter and burned.
It’s the little things that make sure my customers enjoy their experience, and never forget the first sip that left them jonesing for more.
It doesn’t matter if the drinks are disposable, gone faster sometimes than the time it takes me to actually make them.
Everyone who comes to The Nest feels like coming home when they catch that aroma, that taste, that special vibe.
Which is why I’m squinting, working on getting the taste juuust right for Andrea Silverton’s whipped mint mocha freeze when the bell over the door jingles, announcing a new customer.
I can’t look up just yet, not until I pile the whipped cream on top in a perfect cone of frosted mint-coffee dream. I narrow my eyes and give it a finishing swirl before I come back to earth.
“Ta-da!” I say, pushing the coffee shake across the counter.
Andrea, Blake’s punky purple-haired daughter, grins at me.
I don’t see that Clark boy with her today. But I give it about ten minutes before he’s here to steal her off into a corner where they’ll sit with their heads together, giving each other moony looks—until Blake comes to drag her home, pick up his wife, and ever-so-reluctantly give Clark a ride, too.
He’ll warm up to the boyfriend eventually, right?
He’s got plenty of time to try, considering his wife, Peace, is in here almost every night, strumming her guitar and s
erenading a very thirsty crowd.
“Thanks, Feliss,” Andrea says, flashing me a peace sign and a wink, irreverent as always. “How much do I owe you?”
“On the house tonight,” I tease. “Your stepmom’s my best entertainment.”
Andrea grimaces, glancing over at where Peace Silverton perches on a stool, fingers plucking softly on the strings. Her voice rises in a soothing, hypnotic melody over the murmurs of the crowd. “Jeez, enough with the stepmom stuff. She’s my friend.”
“Okay, babe. I’ll stop reminding you what a dirty old man your dad is.”
“Felicity!” Andrea sputters, swiping up her drink and going red to her ears.
“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” I have mercy, though, especially since I have customers waiting. Laughing, I shoo her off and snag a towel to wipe down a few drops of condensation off the gleaming lacquered bar. “Go steal a seat before they’re all gone.”
She sticks her tongue out at me, and I pull up a smile for my next customer. I start to open my mouth—only to realize it’s a fresh face.
A kid, maybe eleven or twelve.
This dark-haired, gangly, raw-boned boy who looks like he’s just growing into his hands and feet.
Someone new here in Heart’s Edge but who’s already made himself at home, considering he’s been adopted by the town’s local oversized marmalade lump.
Mozart the cat trails after him, twining around his ankles and mewing loudly.
The boy looks down with the devotion of someone who’s trying not to trip over his feet or the purr-ball.
On second thought, I think I’ve seen him a couple times recently? Might’ve served him sodas for a dollar.
I never got his name before he was gone, ducking his face beneath his shaggy fringe of hair and always fidgeting with a camera dangling from his neck by an adjustable strap.
But this is the first time I haven’t seen him alone.
A few seconds later, there’s another jingle of the bells on my door, and a tall, bulky shape I outwardly call Mr. Cold Brew strolls inside.
Inwardly, there’s only one name that truly fits—Cold Brew the Barbarian.
I’m not exaggerating.
Almost seven feet tall, with biceps bigger than my head, I don’t think he’d even need a hilariously big fantasy-novel sword to eat an army of evil brutes for breakfast. Just a really big spoon.
He’s one tall, dark, and deliciously mysterious drink of whoa, mama, perched on two honed columns for legs that would probably scare the most shredded kangaroo on the planet.
...look, I never said I had a promising career as a stand-up comedian, did I?
Seriously, Alaska Charter hasn’t been in town that long. But he’s made one banging dent on every single woman’s midnight fantasies, including—especially—mine.
Just long enough to leave an impression that hits my lady-bits like lightning.
Just long enough to notice when he disappeared for the winter, too, after months of seeing his tall, loping stride bust through the door every day while he worked on that big construction project in the valley.
It’s that place everybody knows and barely mentions where the old hotel and older mine shaft—plus a certain evil lair that won’t be mentioned—used to be.
But I didn’t see him for a while and figured maybe he was just a temp or seasonal staff.
Once Holt Silverton got his construction business wrapped up for the season, the big guy went home.
He reappeared a week or two ago, lugging around that huge growler jug he always wants filled to the brim with cold brew, and bearing a laundry list of coffee orders for the entire construction crew.
This time he’s here with that kid in tow—who looks way too much like Alaska not to be his.
Huh.
So the mountain man barbarian’s a daddy.
That’s something I hadn’t picked up through the small-town gossip grapevine.
No point in being a tiny bit disappointed, wondering if there might be a mom, too, who’s going to show up just as suddenly and mysteriously as the boy.
Nah.
Let’s be real.
I never stood a chance with a man who looks like that. Not because I lack confidence, it’s just, you know...
I’ve got a business to run.
It’s also a full-time job competing with the Vulture Squad, AKA every single lady in Heart’s Edge, with their bloodhound instincts for brutally handsome, seemingly unattached men.
I know when to keep my distance, or risk getting beaked.
But that doesn’t mean I mind taking a secretive look as Alaska stops to curl one massive, thick hand around his son’s shoulder, handling the boy with warmth and gentle restraint.
He bends down and murmurs something to the kid, who nods and dips down to scoop the cat up.
They’re lucky Mozart’s lazy and always thrilled to be carried anywhere he can easily walk.
While the kid cuddles the meower close to his chest, Alaska straightens, striding to the counter with his usual metal growler jug.
My eyes flick down and—
Oh. Wow.
The jug’s steely dull grey is almost the same shade as the silvery-grey ink of the sleeve tattoos rippling up his forearms, detailing stylized artwork that looks like a storm captured in raw muscle and graceful lines of total power.
Those muscles twist and swirl, sinew tightening as he sets the jug down on my counter and then lifts his arm. He drags a hand through his hair, pushing the thick mess of black out of his heavily bearded face, exposing the brilliant glow of mocha-brown eyes.
You’d think a beard that thick would hide his face.
Actually, all it does is center how firm his mouth is. How sensuous.
His lips look like they only speak sternness and cruelty and ice-cold commands.
But it’s like he’s always got a hidden smile, waiting to burst out, and when he speaks there’s nothing in his deep, gravelly voice except kindness and this harsh Yankee drawl like he’s always just stepped away from a red-eye shift in a biting wind.
“Evening, miss,” he says politely.
Oh, boy. Behave.
I’m not in the running for either stepmom or sidepiece.
Stop staring at his lips.
At the weathered creases around his eyes, and the way his cheekbones make crags above his beard.
At the way his dark-grey t-shirt clings obscenely tight to his mile-wide chest.
At the way his shoulders and pecs taper dramatically to his narrow waist and the slouch of his jeans on powerful hips that are always too extra.
Too much for me to process when I’m struggling to remember how to speak without hog-tying my tongue.
So while I’m trying to un-jack my brain, I flash him my best welcome-to-my-shop-I-am-a-sexless-coffee-droid smile, and reach for the growler.
“Hey, big guy. The usual?” I ask.
“Always.”
I try not to let his voice dance up my spine.
Even if he’s warm and friendly, Alaska has a way of looking at me that’s almost guarded, as if he’s shielding something behind those glittering russet eyes. I try not to wonder if he’s like that with everyone, or just with me.
“Late night tonight,” he says, casually enough. “I’m handling some delicate wiring work that can’t wait till morning.”
I smile, but I don’t get the chance to answer—to very much not mind my own business and ask what that means for the kid, burying his face between Mozart’s ears and rubbing the cat’s head with his chin.
Because my door jingles again just as I’m finishing up filling Alaska’s growler.
And the worst possible guest comes strolling in.
Mitch, the owner of the town’s auto body shop.
His wife. His kids.
And bouncing ahead of them, Momo, his overly friendly boxer, who immediately lets out a yip, ears pricking at the sight of Mozart.
Crap city.
Incoming disaster in three,
two, one, and—
Away we go.
Mozart’s ears whip back first. Then Momo’s tongue flops out, front paws slapping the floor excitedly.
Mozart hisses.
Momo darts at the boy.
Soon, it’s just a flurry of orange fur puffed everywhere as Mozart launches himself out of the kid’s arms, sending his camera swinging against his chest.
He’s smart enough to let the cat go before he gets clawed to ribbons.
Bad news: the dog’s not smart enough to realize Mr. Mozart’s old, territorial, and quite possibly fearless against anything smaller than a Hummer.
Next thing I know, it’s six-shooters at dawn, a cat and dog standoff that makes me think of those old Tom and Jerry skits where Tom quits hunting Jerry long enough to get into it with that big old bulldog, Spike.
I guess the kid thinks the same thing—or at least thinks it makes a pretty neat shot—because he’s backing up with his camera pulled to his face.
And by backing up, I mean backing into the table near the front window.
The same table where I’ve set up a display tower piled high with dozens of brand-new ceramic mugs emblazoned with The Nest’s curling logo in delicate gold leaf against a lovely autumn rust-to-gold gradient.
“Oh, nooo,” I whisper pathetically.
My eyes flick to Alaska for a hot, worried second.
I need to move now if I want to keep my wares in one piece.
But the instant my knees bend, way too many things happen at once.
I dart around the counter.
Momo barks loud enough to practically rattle the windows.
