“And this,” I say, “the internet swore I needed. Do I? I don’t even have fence posts. At least I don’t think I do. Maybe I do. Maybe the property came with mystery fence posts. Honestly, at this point I wouldn’t be shocked if there’s a goat up there I don’t know about.”
The cashier opens his mouth.
A calm male voice behind me says, “That’s for fence posts.”
I turn to identify the low, rumbling voice. And my brain, which has been sprinting for the last hour, comes to a complete and dangerous stop.
Oh … oh, that is a man. Not just a man. A problem. The kind with shoulders that look like they could carry entire trees and hands that probably knew exactly what to do with them.
Tall and broad with a beard and interesting tattoos. His shirt is stretched across a chest that looks hand-built by God on a very confident day. He’s holding a couple lengths of lumber under one arm like they weigh nothing. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are definitely on my cart, taking in my chaotic selections with a level of patience I do not deserve.
I forget what I’m holding for a second. Then I remember and nearly drop the post hole digger on my own foot. He catches it, handing it back to me.
Smooth.
I clear my throat. “Well. That explains a lot.”
His gaze moves from the digger to the shovel, then to the pickaxe, and finally to the bags of concrete in the bottom of my cart. One dark brow lifts.
“Concrete?” he asks.
There is something about his voice that makes me want to answer honestly and flirt at the same time, which is unfortunate because at the moment I can’t manage either with dignity.
“Yes,” I say, with all the false confidence of a woman who does not know why she is buying concrete.
His expression doesn’t change, but I can feel him not buying it. The cashier wisely says nothing.
I should stop here. I should quietly pay for my nonsense, load it into my car, and leave before I embarrass myself any further. Instead, because I am me, I bend to grab one of the concrete bags one of the employees in the back loaded for me.
How hard can it be?
Very.
That’s how hard.
The bag barely shifts before it slips from my hands, tilting sideways with terrifying speed. I gasp and jerk back, fully prepared to lose a toe in Cady Springs before I’ve even unpacked all my boxes back at the cabin. But it never hits the floor.
Two large hands catch it.
Of course this giant tattooed mountain man catches the concrete bag like it’s a sack of flour and not sixty pounds of humiliation. He lifts it over his shoulder with insulting ease. I try not to notice how easily he does it. I fail immediately.
I stare at the bag … then at him. I glance at my own arms like they’ve personally betrayed me.
“Those are heavier than they look,” I say, because apparently I’m committed to sounding deranged in front of this man.
His mouth moves at one corner. Not quite a smile. More like the possibility of one.
“Yes.”
Up close, he smells faintly like cedar, clean skin, and the kind of outdoor air that costs money in candles.
Noticing this about him is not helping my situation, only worsening it.
He observes me for a few seconds — more than most people would. But he’s not rude about it. This giant of strength seems calm and observant — like he’s taking inventory.
“You’re new here,” he says.
Not a question.
