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1
DUKE
“You can have $150 for all of it,” I say, peering into the truck bed to inspect the bundle of wood.
Trace raises an eyebrow. “$200.”
My buddy loves to haggle, but I can’t blame him. He knows his lumber is the best in Crave County.
“I’ll give you $175 and not a dime more.”
“Let’s call it $180.” Trace crosses his arms, smirking at me. “I like round numbers.”
“Round numbers my ass,” I mutter as I hand over the cash and grab the bundled lumber, hoisting it over my shoulder. “There. $180. Satisfied?”
“Sure.” Trace looks annoyingly smug as he counts the bills. “Pleasure doing business, Duke.”
He slaps me on the shoulder and says goodbye before driving away from my cabin, his pickup kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. I watch him go before dumping the lumber in the back of my truck. As I finish securing it, something furry slinks around my ankles, and I look down to see my cat, Scout, blinking up at me. Her calico coat shines in the sunlight: white, black, and orange, and I reach down to pet her, gently scratching behind her ears.
“I need to go to work,” I tell her as she purrs against my hand. “Be good. And don’t bring any more damn mice into the cabin.”
The furry stub where her tail used to be twitches slightly, as if in protest, but she rubs her head affectionately against my palm before I straighten up and climb into my truck.
It’s a bright summer morning, and golden light streams through the canopies as I follow the winding road into Cherry Hollow. On Main Street, I park outside Mountain Brew, desperate for a coffee. But as I step onto the sidewalk and straighten up to my full height, I immediately feel eyes on me. It’s a busy morning, and the town is bustling with people, most of them doing a double take when I pass. Sometimes it’s subtle—a discreet look; other times, people openly gawk at me, like they’re watching a freak show and I’m the main event.
The door to the coffee shop opens as I approach, and a mom walks out with her son. The little boy’s eyes go wide when he sees me, and he shrinks toward his mom like I’m a rabid dog about to attack. I try to ignore the way my stomach drops as they scurry past.
Stooping forward, I duck to enter the coffee shop and order my usual espresso, avoiding eye contact with everybody. Once the barista hands over my drink, I leave as quickly as possible, downing the warm shot of coffee in the privacy of my truck. But it does nothing to soothe the tightness in my throat.
Goddammit.
I’ve lived in Cherry Hollow all my life, and most of the locals are used to my appearance. But tourists always stare. That’s why I keep to myself, spending my days alone in my workshop or the warehouse of my hardware store, leaving the people-facing shit to my employees. After all this time, the stares shouldn’t bother me. I should be used to them. But I hate the attention more than ever.
By sixth grade, I was taller than all my teachers, and I shot up like a damn weed through my teens. Now, at forty-two, I’m seven feet tall. That alone is enough to make people stare, but it sure doesn’t help that my face is lined with scars and burns from my military career, making me look like a hardened criminal. And I’m not just tall—I’m big and broad as hell. Everywhere I go, I’m head and shoulders bigger than everyone around me. People look at me like I’m a beast. A brute. It’s all anybody sees, and that’s why I’m better off alone: away from the gasps, the double takes, the flinches.
With a sigh, I drive away from Mountain Brew and head for the outskirts of town, toward Stirling’s Lumber and Hardware. My grandpa, Ernest Stirling, started this place back in the fifties, and my dad took over in 1983. He left the business to me in his will along with a hefty inheritance, and I’ve made this place my purpose since leaving the military. I bust my ass producing the best-quality timber for the store, keeping my hands busy so my mind can’t wander. There are enough employees to do all the work for me, but I need the distraction, a new purpose now that I’m no longer serving my country. When I’m not building custom pieces in the workshop behind my cabin, I’m here in the warehouse, finding shit to do.
My employees say their usual good mornings, but they know better than to make small talk as I haul Trace’s lumber out to the kiln to dry. Back in the warehouse, I busy myself with chopping and sanding wood, sawdust swirling around me as I work. The minutes fly by as I focus single-mindedly on my tasks, but a couple of hours later, the shadow of a person falls over me. I’m on my knees inspecting a fresh delivery of lumber, and irritation flashes through me at the interruption.
“What is it?” I ask without looking up, expecting one of my employees to answer.
“Um, hi! Sorry to bother you, but I want to buy a bookcase.”
I don’t recognize the pretty little voice, but I still don’t look around. I’ve had enough of people gawking at me today.
“The main part of the store is through the double doors to your left,” I say, focusing on the lumber in front of me. “One of my employees can help you out.”
“The woman out front said I should come to the warehouse. I’m looking for a custom piece.”
Dammit.
Reluctantly, I straighten up to my full height, unsurprised by the sharp intake of breath from behind me. Finally, I turn around, and my heart leaps into my throat.
The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen is craning her head to look at me. She’s young, early twenties at the latest, with a soft heart-shaped face and eyes the color of honey, warm and golden. Every inch of her body is deliciously thick and curvy, and even the baggy t-shirt she’s wearing can’t hide the swell of her breasts. Her chocolate-brown hair brushes her shoulders, and I’m hit by a sudden need to run my hands through it, desperate to feel her soft tresses beneath my fingers.
The girl is talking. Her pretty pink lips are moving, forming words, but my brain isn’t keeping up. In all my forty-two years, I’ve never reacted like this to a woman before, and all I can do is stare at her, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Fuck, what is happening to me?
