Two-thirty.
Two forty-five.
At ten to three, I hear a car coming up the dirt track, tires crunching as it reaches the tiny gravel parking area. It’s not visible from the office windows, but I hear the telltale slam of a car door closing. Then, a few moments later, someone knocks on my office door.
“Come in,” I call hoarsely as I stand up from my seat.
The door opens.
All the air rips from my lungs, and I grip the back of my chair tight, forcing myself to stay upright as the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen steps into my office.
Willa.
The world tilts as I stare at her, taking in her thick curves, wrapped up in worn jeans and a cream sweater, filling out every inch of fabric. Dark hair brushes her shoulders, more black than brown, choppy bangs skimming her brows. Her big blue eyes peer at me from beneath them, like the sky on a summer afternoon.
Fuck, she’s perfect.
As she takes a step closer to my desk, I clock the wariness in her expression. The dark circles lining her eyes. Calloused hands; nails that have been bitten to the quick. She might be young, but this woman is clearly no stranger to stress. No stranger to hard work. She looks like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and it does something to me. Makes every protective instinct inside me snap to attention.
“Hi,” she says in that sweet voice, “I’m Willa. I’m here for the interview.” A pause. “Are you Flint Calloway?”
It takes me a beat too long to answer. Hearing her say my name wakes something savage in me. Raw and sudden, like a match struck in a dark room. I’ve been alone a long time. Always liked it that way and never wanted more. But I feel that wanting now. It overtakes my body—immediate, overwhelming, and completely out of nowhere. An ache that crawls through my veins, making my cock stir, my heart race.
I want this woman more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
Doesn’t matter that she’s a stranger. Doesn’t matter that she’s only here to fill a position. Doesn’t even matter that she’s twenty years too young for me. Nothing matters but the pure need racing through me, the primal urge to protect her. Claim her. Do whatever it takes to keep her safe.
Fuck, I’m losing it.
Ever since I heard Willa’s voice on the phone, I’m like a man possessed. Hell, I don’t recognize myself right now—don’trecognize any of these crazy feelings. But they’re real. They burn like a forest fire inside me as I watch Willa cock her head, waiting for me to answer.
“Yes,” I finally manage to grunt. “I’m Flint Calloway.”
And I’m going to make you mine.
3
WILLA
I’mfresh from my shift at Creekside Diner, my perfume doing little to hide the scent of coffee and bacon still clinging to my clothes as I drive up Cherry Mountain. The call from Calloway Logging came as a surprise during my lunch break—a welcome distraction from refreshing the auction page non-stop. I wasn’t expecting to hear back so fast, and Idefinitelywasn’t expecting the boss to call and ask me to come for an interview the same day.
Flint Calloway.
I definitely shouldn’t have noticed how deep and sexy his voice sounded. It’s been echoing through my mind ever since he hung up. I’m still thinking about it now, as my phone guides me away from the road and down a dirt track into the trees. Eventually, I reach a tiny gravel parking area and come to a stop.
The office is visible through the trees: a one-story building made of honey-colored logs. Sugar Creek curls behind it, glittering in the pale sunshine. It looks like an idyllic place to work, and I feel a flicker of hope in my chest as I straighten my bangs in the mirror.
I hope I get the job.
I grab my door handle, then pause, unable to stop myself from quickly checking the auction site. A familiar knot forms in my gut as the page loads, revealing the number under my profile.
$4,375
It’s been creeping up since this morning, but watching the price increase doesn’t bring me the relief I’d hoped. Instead, it fills me with visceral anxiety to think that real people are out there bidding on me, their eyes scanning my profile, fingers tapping out a number.
Fighting down my unease, I exit the tab and get out of the car, trying to refocus my attention on what I’m here to do. I can’t control the bids on my virginity, but I can control how I perform in a job interview. Heck, I’ve been to more than I can count. I know the drill: sit straight, make eye contact, answer the questions clearly, and don’t fidget.
But nothing prepares me for the man on the other side of the door.
