His hand is large, rough, and warm. I take it, suddenly and absurdly aware of the fact that I haven’t wanted to touch a man in a very long time.
“Rainey,” I respond.
His fingers close around mine once, firm and brief, before he lets go. And just like that, I realize I’m standing in a lumber store with an aggressive shovel, bags of concrete I can’t lift, and a life I may or may not have wrecked all over again.
Yet, somehow … I get the strange, electric feeling that Cady Springs is about to become a whole lot more complicated.
Chapter 2
Troy
Inotice the redhead the second she pushes through the front door of the lumber center. Not because I’m looking for trouble. But because she arrives like it.
The bell over the door jingles, and a gust of cool mountain air sweeps in with her. She’s moving fast, copper hair escaping a messy knot, cheeks flushed like she just lost a fight with the wind on the walk from the parking lot. Or with life. Hard to tell.
I’m halfway through loading lumber for a new set of raised beds when she barrels past me.
Later, I catch sight of her again. She grabs a shovel like she intends to challenge someone to a duel.
I’m down the aisle, browsing new products, but find my eyes pivoting to her. So … I just watch.
You learn a lot about people by how they handle tools. She tests the shovel’s weight. Turns it sideways. Squints at it and frowns. City … definitely.
Then she drops it into her cart with the kind of irritated force people use when they’re mad at something that can’t fight back.
The cart rattles down the aisle as she moves through the store. Her items seem to not fit one project — that’s for sure. I notice a pickaxe, post hole digger, gloves. Okay, that might fit one job. I also notice roofing nails, gutter brackets, and bags of concrete.
I fold my arms. Either she’s building something ambitious or she has absolutely no idea what she’s doing. My money’s on the second.
She stops in the aisle and stares at the shovel again like she has serious questions about it. Then she starts talking to herself. I can’t hear everything she says, but the tone carries. She seems frustrated and determined. A little bit furious. The kind of energy that comes from someone trying very hard not to feel something else. I’ve seen that before.
A few minutes later she rolls the cart up to the counter and unloads half of it like she’s conducting a demonstration.
“I have questions,” she tells Ethan.
Poor kid. Ethan’s been working here three months. He barely understands half the tools in the place himself. The redhead lifts the shovel.
“It feels aggressive.”
I press my lips together.
Ethan blinks at her.
“Aggressive?”
“Yes. Like if I dig with it the ground might retaliate.”
I look down and decide I’m not getting involved. Not yet. She lifts the post hole digger next.
“The internet said I needed this.”
Now that gets my attention. The internet has ruined more tools than misuse ever did. She keeps talking fast. Like the words are trying to outrun each other on the way out of her mouth.
Ethan looks like he’s considering a career change.
“That’s for fence posts,” I say before I can stop myself.
She turns around. And for a second I forget what I was about to do. Red hair and green eyes. Curves that would make a quiet man forget his manners. I’ve had my share of women who liked a man like me for about a weekend. Long enough to enjoy the idea of it. Not long enough to stay for the work.
