FLINT
I workthrough the log pile in a steady rhythm, breathing in the crisp mountain air as my axe slices through wood. It’s a bright morning—cold and clear—the kind that reminds you winter is almost done. The aspens are just starting to bud along the bank of Sugar Creek, and in a few weeks, this whole mountainside will be green again.
Man, I love it out here.
There’s nowhere I’d rather be than roaming the woods with an axe in my hand. Just me and the trees—the swish of my axe and the rush of the flowing creek. No damn emails, no invoices, no spreadsheets.
I’ve been running Calloway Logging for twelve years. Built it from the ground up and poured everything I had into making it a success. Now I’ve got three crews working contracts all across Crave County. A foreman on each one. Good men who know their jobs—know how to manage themselves without me breathing down their necks. It’s a well-oiled machine these days. Leaves me free to work alone in the forest. Keep my hands busy and my head clear.
I still do as little of the office work as I can get away with. Always have. I started this business because I wanted to workwith my hands, not because I wanted to sit behind a desk. But ever since my assistant packed his bags for a new life in Florida, the admin has been piling up. I can’t ignore it for much longer.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. Hate the damn thing. Wouldn’t even have a phone if I didn’t need it for work. I ignore the buzz until I reach the bottom of the woodpile, breaking up the last log. Then I reach into my back pocket and pull the phone out.
It’s an email notification—a reminder to review the application for the admin position that landed in my inbox yesterday. First one so far. I sit down on a tree trunk and open it, scanning the details. It’s from a woman named Willa. She’s young. Twenty-two. No formal admin experience. Already working two jobs. I frown as I scroll through the list of places she’s worked—multiple overlapping jobs from the age of fourteen. Looks like she’s moved around a lot too. Had jobs everywhere from Montana to Mississippi.
I should hit delete. Toss the application and wait for another candidate—someone less likely to bounce after a few months. But something stops me. A soft spot I can’t ignore. Three jobs means this woman needs the money. Needs the hours. And while I’m running a business here, not a charity, my instinct is to give her a chance.
It’s what my mom would have done.
Her resume would have looked a lot like this one. She had no support. No family. Nothing but a broken heart after my dad walked out when I was still in diapers. She moved us around a lot, chasing work, busting her ass every second of the day. Died of a heart attack at fifty. Things might have been different if someone had given her a real chance. Paid her right.
I grind my teeth as I read over Willa’s application again. I know I’m projecting right now. Hell, there could be a million reasons why this girl has had so many jobs all over the country.But I’m a man who trusts his gut, and I’m already dialing the number on the application before I’ve weighed it up. I hit call, and on the second ring, it connects.
“Hello?” A pause. “Who is this?”
The voice catches me off guard—soft and sweet, but also wary, like she’s bracing for bad news. It makes my heart catch in a way it definitely shouldn’t.
“Is this Willa?”
“Yes…”
“I’m Flint Calloway from Calloway Logging. You free to come in for an interview today?”
“Oh.” She sounds surprised. “That would be great. Uh, I finish my shift at two. Is that okay?”
“We’ll meet at three,” I tell her. “Know where to find me?”
“Sure, I have the address.”
I nod even though she can’t see me. “See you then.”
I cut off the call and stare down at my phone, trying to make sense of the weird sensation in my chest. It feels like my heart is lurching forward—like I’m falling down the mountain and my insides aren’t keeping up.
The hell’s wrong with me?
Scowling, I pocket my phone and pick up my axe, trying to shake it off. I get started on a new batch of logs, chopping them faster than usual, my jaw tight. But it’s impossible to lose myself in the rhythm like I usually do. My mind refuses to quiet, stubbornly fixated on Willa’s pretty little voice speaking into my ear.
I spend the rest of the morning trying not to think about the phone call, so of course I end up thinking about nothing else. There was just something about Willa. Something that got under my skin in the thirty seconds I heard her speak. Now it’s lodged there, like a splinter I can’t dig out.
“It was just a damn phone call,” I grunt under my breath between swings of my axe. “Get a grip.”
I’ve been alone all my life. Forty-three years old and I’ve never dated. Never been tempted. I’ve built a good life for myself on Cherry Mountain—the cabin, the business, the forest—it’s always been enough. Hell, more than enough. After the upbringing I had, this life is more than I ever imagined for myself, and I don’t waste time wanting things I don’t have.
At least, I never used to.
I’m still on edge when I break for lunch and head back to my office. It’s a squat log building surrounded by trees: one room, two desks, and a bathroom in the back. I built it eight years ago when the operation was smaller. It still gets the job done, but right now, the place is a mess. Stacks of paper everywhere, old rosters pinned to the wall, a whiteboard covered in my last assistant’s notes—site schedules, haul routes, crew rotations.
I start clearing up the office before Willa arrives, piling everything up into something resembling order. Then I sit behind my desk and scarf down a roast beef sandwich, barely tasting it. My eyes are constantly darting to the clock on the wall, stomach in knots as the time ticks closer to three.
