Big Man

I toss my head, shoulders squared. “Oh? And you’re basing this opinion of me on what, exactly? Whatever bullshit town gossip you’ve clearly swallowed hook line and sinker?”

He shrugs, not bothering to deny it. “Generally when enough people believe something, they have a decent reason.”

“So you just always believe the mob mentality about a new person, no matter what it is?” Or even a person you used to know?

“People around here always said you looked down on us. Hated the country life, and not just the life, but also anyone who wanted that life for themselves. They say you thought you were too good for this town and everyone in it — that’s why you turned heel and never once looked back.”

I laugh once, soft and bitter. “Who knows? Maybe they’re right after all,” I mutter. “I certainly am too good for this,” I add with a glance at my now mud-spattered feet.

“If the golden shoe fits…” Grant shrugs again.

“I earned that shoe, I’ll have you know,” I snap.

“Never meant to imply you didn’t,” he replies easily, yet somehow it feels like another snub. I side-eye him as he bends down to collect the wood he’s chopped — a small, tidy pile that’ll be just enough for the stove to last a day or two. When he straightens again, wood cradled in his arms, he raises a single eloquent eyebrow. “Well? You want to see the interior?”

I grimace. “Depends. Is it as shabby as this yard?”

His mouth flat lines again. “It’s just a little overgrowth.”

“Are you kidding?” I blurt, flinging my arms wide. “There’s at least three dead trees out front, potholes everywhere, the gate’s rusting down, that tire swing could probably kill anyone unlucky enough to set foot on it…”

“Superficial,” he contradicts. “Won’t take more than a week to clear.”

“It better not. I want to be out of this hellhole by next weekend, not a minute later.”

Any potential friendship I might have noticed budding in his expression dies out again. “And you wonder why people think you’re stuck-up, Sasha,” he mutters. Yet he glances sidelong at me as he says it, his eyes lingering just a little too long on my chest to be excusable. He’s into me. It’s obvious.

And to my surprise, despite my annoyance at him — no, more than annoyance, it’s borderline anger now —I realize that my gaze keeps doing the same. Tracing those biceps, that flat plane of stomach, now pressed against the bundle of wood he’s holding. Oh, to be that pile of wood…

I shake myself. That’s insane. And he’s not my type anyway. He’s way too big, in every sense of the word. Big muscled, big as in way taller than me — probably has a big dick, my mind unhelpfully points out.

But he’s also got an incurable case of huge ego. So, no, thank you.

“I don’t wonder,” I respond with a toss of my hair. “I know.” It’s easy to play the villain they all believe me to be. The jerk city girl who’s come to laugh at all the farm kids. It’s easy because I’ve been in their shoes. I know how much I hated it. I’ve made myself a different life, and I’m not ashamed of it. These country folk aren’t going to make me feel that way, either. No matter how many rumors they start.

Grant casts one last long, searching look at me, then scoffs deep in the back of his throat. Disapproving. Dismissing. He shakes his head and storms past me. I watch his back as he climbs the back steps into the house and shoulders open the door. Annoyed as I am, I can’t help admitting that I like the view as he goes.

As soon as the door slams between us, I exhale in relief. Well. That was unexpected.

Unexpected, unpleasant. This town is already living up to my memories and then some.

Right, I remind myself. I’m here because I have a job to do. So, first things first, I’m going to accomplish that job.

I turn my back on the house for now. First things first means securing myself a bed to sleep in tonight that won’t feature moth-eaten bedding and a moldy mattress. As I climb back into the car, though, I can’t help glancing back at the house one last time. I notice a twitch in the living room curtains.

Grant, no doubt, watching me drive away again. Well, good. Let him sit in there and stew. Hopefully by the time I get back, he’ll have a better attitude about this whole mess.

“Yes, a room for one,” I repeat.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Bluebell. We simply don’t have space.” The hotel clerk stares at me blandly across the desk.

Calling him a clerk seems a little much. He’s the lone employee at the only hotel in town, a three story building next to the hospital, the same one I stayed in while I was visiting Mama.