Page 1 of Silver Brewer

1

A long and winding road

[Letty]

Where the hell am I?

I’m losing the GPS on my phone, and I feel as though I’ve passed the same copse of trees three times.

Who can tell?

Birches, maples, and cedars surround me, and those are the trees I recognize. Everything is a sea of thick bark and greenery, but soon, this forest will be ablaze with golds, reds, and oranges. The changing season is the reason for my rush. I need to secure the property before winter so the ground can be broken first thing next spring.

Working for Mullen Realty, I’ve climbed my way up from assistant office manager to assistant seller to commercial real estate agent. Not exactly my career choice but it’s been a steady income. When I didn’t have a job at twenty-four using my college degree in English, my mom made me go to work for my uncle, a real estate mogul in Chicago. I’m now forty, so I guess you could say I settled into the family business. Uncle Frank prides himself on buying and selling, and what he wants is to buy this godforsaken property in Georgia and sell it to a hotel company who wants the space for their next lodge-like resort and spa.

As the only vehicle in sight while I wind through the curving roads, I’m waiting for Jason to jump out with his creepy hockey mask and start swinging a chainsaw at me at any second. I might have mixed a few horror movies together, but that’s the scene in my head as I weave along the narrow drive. I’m not even certain I’m in the correct county, let alone the right state anymore. I need Blue Ridge, Georgia, but all I’ve seen for miles is tree trunks and foliage, and occasionally, the inconspicuous marking for a turnoff. From the office, Marcus tries to assure me I’m in the correct place.

“There are only two tire tracks leading to nowhere,” I say into the phone, struggling to drive the rented Jetta over the rough terrain.

“That’s it. You’re in the right place. Don’t mess this up,” his gruff voice barks through the speaker.

I hit a bump, and the phone jostles out of the cup holder to the floor.

Dammit.

I can’t risk reaching for it, and I’m too afraid to stop until I see the place I’m destined to find.

Harrington cabin.

I’m not certain what I expect. I’ve been told it’s rustic, but I don’t know if that means quaint or just plain rough. Either way, Mullen Real Estate wants the property.

“I think I’m almost there,” I shout, as the phone lies facedown on the passenger side floor. I can’t hear Marcus’s reply. He’s not only my assistant but one of my best friends, and he knows this acquisition is important to me. I’d prove myself as a skilled real estate buyer if I can book this deal. I’d also solidify my position in the company and earn myself a cut of the business.

Partner.

The word echoes through my head. The sound has a nice ring to it.

Olivet Pierson. Partner.

As the dirt road narrows, I see light at the end of the tunnel of trees. A clearing of sorts opens before me, and I slow even more than the five miles per hour I’ve been driving. As I break through the lane, a vision of masculinity stands before me. With his shirt off, the bare back of a muscular being slings an ax over his shoulder, splitting a piece of wood standing upright on another log. The thwack isn’t heard inside the car, but the thunderous power in which he cracks the wood seems to vibrate under my vehicle and into my foot. I’m frozen at the appearance of his rippling back, sweaty spine, and low-slung pants that suggest he wears boxer briefs by the sliver of waistband exposed. In red. The hair on top of his head is short, trimmed close but not military style to his skull, while a bush of facial hair covers his jaw. My eyes focus on his profile as he stands and straightens, then quickly turns to see my car. Deep, dark eyes narrow, zeroing in on me in anger. He drops the ax and raises his hands, his mouth opening, but I don’t hear what he says.

I’m blinded by the gleam of sunlight bouncing off his firm chest, a sprinkle of hair in the shape of a V between the flat plains of his pecs and above the slow hills of his abs. More hair leads south, dipping into the red band exposed above his waistline, and my mouth waters until two large hands hit the hood of my rental car, and I notice his mouth move as he shouts.

“Stop.”

Oh. My. God.

My foot slams on the brake, causing me to jolt forward and narrowly missing the bridge of my nose on the steering wheel. I stare out the front windshield, taking in the appearance of the man I almost hit. He’s a mountain of a man, someone I envision people wrote tales about long ago. He’s lumbersexual by modern standards, and then I note his hair again. Cropped and charcoal. It isn’t black but more like the smoky color before the coals are ready. A perfect blend of dusty silver covers his head and jaw. He’s a silver fox, but from the size of him, he looks more like an angry grizzly.

“I’m so sorry,” I mutter as I place the car in park and scramble to remove myself from the rental. My ankles twist as the heels I wear can’t balance on the uneven dirt beneath my feet. I clutch the open driver’s door for support, expecting to fall and knock my chin. How many stitches would I need? Is there even a doctor out here? A hospital nearby? Oh God, I might bleed to death.

Then I take note of the puzzled man before me, still leaning against my hood.

Staring at him, I’d die a happy woman.

However, the vibe coming off him is anything but pleased. His chest heaves as his eyes nearly disappear while he squints at me.

“Who are you?” He emphasizes each word as he speaks. I certainly can’t use the statement “I was in the neighborhood” because I doubt you’d find another human being within miles.