Big Man

That’s quite enough of that.

Heels in hand, I stretch my ankle — feels fine, thank goodness — and step around the gate, eyes now warily fixed on the ground. There are holes everywhere — something burrowing has taken up residence in what used to be our front walk.

Something like guilt tugs at me. I probably shouldn’t have left this place so long untended. I should have come down to take care of selling it off the moment Mama passed away, instead of letting it sit around waiting for me.

Regardless of the guilt, though, what rises faster and starker in my mind is revulsion. I hate it here. Always have, always will. Everything from that ugly tire swing to the stupid gate to the sagging porch out front and the weather-worn paint on the windows in a color that used to be cheery but is now just another depressing reminder of how dead this farm is.

It died with Mama, and along with her died any last reason I might ever have had to feel sentimental about this grubby old shack.

I cross to the porch, planning to go inside — might as well get the worst over with. That’s when I hear a deafening cracking sound, followed by two wooden clatters. After a pause, I hear it again, and it resolves into a familiar noise.

Someone is chopping wood out back.

I frown. Not exactly the type of activity I expect to find my property assessor engaged in. Then again, country folk are strange. Maybe he wanted to take home some bits of one of the dead trees as a souvenir.

I abandon the front door for now and follow the hole-pitted path around back, ignoring the way the semi-hard mud squishes underneath my toes and the occasional rock that jabs against my bare soles. I used to have tough feet, the kind I could run straight across gravel with. Now I’m a tenderfoot again, wincing at every stray pebble.

It only makes my resentment grow. I’ve grown strong in other ways since I left this farm. I built a life for myself, a career I’m proud of. A career that keeps me up all night and then again first thing in the morning, burning the candle at both ends, but still.

I round the edge of the house and stop dead on the path, forgetting for a moment about my rage. Hell, even about the pebbles I’m standing on.

In front of me, shirtless and sheened in sweat, is the most perfectly sculpted man I have ever seen.

He could be made of bronze the way he’s posing now, weighing the axe over his shoulder as he eyes the stack of wood in front of him, balanced on the same tree stump where my Mama used to chop her own wood years ago. I can count every single muscle on his chest, from his pecs down his washboard abs to the perfect V that points like an arrow straight down, to a faint line of dark hair that I can’t help tracing to the fly of his jeans.

Damn jeans.

It takes every ounce of my self-control not to drool when he swings the axe all over again, distracting me with the surge and flow of his biceps, the way even his back ripples with strength. He’s got longer hair than I’m typically into, bound in a tight bun at the nape of his neck, dark and curly, to judge by the few flyaways that have escaped the hair tie.

I’m still gawking when he turns to look at me.

Holy shit. No way.

My jaw threatens to drop completely open because I realize—only when he looks straight at me head—I know this guy.

Grant Werther. The formerly scrawny kid who used to chase me around this lawn every summer while our parents talked shop. His dad owned a farm up the road, had the same business problems to deal with as Mom.

I have to say, he’s filled out nicely. His face, which used to be all thin angles, now features sharp cheekbones, a cut jaw and a fine nose. His eyes are dark too, piercing where they catch mine and lock, and his dark, full beard only accentuates his looks.

I swallow so hard I nearly gulp down my tongue in the process.

As for him, he shows no signs of recognizing me at all. Fine, if he wants to play at that game. “What are you doing here?” I manage to ask, finally recovering my wits.

“I could ask you the same thing.” He runs a hand over his hair, taming a few of those wisps, and narrows his eyes. “This is private property, Miss.”

Miss. So he really doesn’t recognize me. How is that possible? We hung out every summer until we hit high school. Until he started hanging with the cool athletic crowd and left me in the dust.