Page 2 of Silver Brewer

Oh Lord, if I screamed, would anyone hear me? If a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound if no one is around to hear it? My thoughts are out of control.

“I’m Olivet Pierson, and I’m looking for George Harrington the second. Is this the Harrington cabin?”

I’m here for the land, but the cabin catches my sight. The two-story building is of medium size, balanced with a window on either side of a single front door, standing open and inviting. A heavy metal overhang shadows the porch, which runs the full length of the cabin. The weathered gray structure with the deep black shingled roof doesn’t look worn. It appears brand new. With a small yard and a forestry backdrop, the place looks quite homey.

“How did you get here?” His gruff voice returns my attention to him. His curiosity causes him to look up over the back of my car, staring down the pinched lane I traveled.

“Are you George Harrington?”

His head swings back to me, and his lips twist. Pressing off my car, he turns for a cloth on the pile of wood and wipes his face with it. Absentmindedly, he travels down his chest, or rather purposely, as he must know I’m watching his every move. I’m practically salivating as he takes his time to swipe across his broad pecs and dip to the trail leading lower. He pats himself with the cloth over the zipper region of his pants, and I flinch. My eyes flick upward, and his lips mockingly smirk.

I can’t say it’s a smile. His face looks far too serious for such a thing. Crinkles mark the edges of his eyes, and his cheekbones are well-defined. He might have been teasing me, but his face gives nothing away.

“So…” I repeat. “Are you George?”

“You must be looking for my father,” he states, tossing what I realize is a white T-shirt back onto the pile of wood. He picks up the ax, and I try to catch my breath. I’m gripping the open door for support, peering at him as he turns his back on me and lifts the wood-chopping instrument. The sound of a splintering log resonates loudly around us, echoing in the deep quiet. I take a second to look around me, no longer lost in the woods, but noticing the beauty of various shades of green. Steeples of pines and broad sweeps of maple whisper in the breeze with a glorious blue sky as its backdrop. The landscape is breathtaking, and the silence reminds me this is the perfect location for a spa and resort. Secluded. Rustic. Peaceful.

Thwack.

Another log splits, and I shift my attention back to Mr. Lumbersexy.

“Do you know anything about the property?” I ask, interrupting him mid-swing. He doesn’t miss the log, but it doesn’t crack. The ax bounces back, and the log topples to its side. When he turns on me, the move is aggressive in nature, yet I find I don’t fear him. His mouth opens, but I speak.

“I’m told it’s owned by George Harrington II. A Miss Elaina Harrington on Mountain Spring Lane told me how to get here. Told me I’d find him here.” I pause as he glares at me. I stopped at the original address given to me by the office. Mountain Spring Lane was a dirt strip with three impressive antebellum homes along the private drive. Old money covered the white paint of each house.

When he doesn’t speak, I continue. “It’s a beautiful piece of property.” I turn my head as if I’m noticing the land, but all I can concentrate on is the weight of his eyes on me, knowing he’s following the twist of my neck as I gaze around me.

“What do you want?” he snaps. The gruffness of his tone snaps my attention back to him. Maybe Grumpy is a better name for him instead of Sexy Lumberjack.

“I’m looking to discuss purchasing the land.”

The ax slips from his hand while his other hand fists into a ball of knuckles. He’s scary, but again, I don’t fear him for some reason.

“It’s not for sale.”

“Everything’s for sale, Mr.…” He still doesn’t offer his name, but I’m sensing I’m in the right place, so he must be George Harrington.

“Listen…” He pauses, and I offer my name.

“Olivet Pierson. Mullen Realty,” I say, walking around my door and closing it. Reaching forward for his hand, I realize my palm already sweats with the anticipation of touching the paw of his. The closer I get to him, he appears even bigger, and we stand in contrast to one another. He’s bare chested in wood shaving-covered pants and rustic work boots while I’m wobbling in my heels with a pencil skirt, blazer, and uncomfortable blouse.

His eyes glance down at my hand, but he doesn’t reciprocate and reach for mine. Instead, he crosses his arms, puffing out his barrel chest and producing two large biceps, flexed in warning.

“Cricket,” he begins, but I correct him.

“Olivet.”

“This place isn’t for sale, so you can just reverse out of here, hopefully without backing into an unsuspecting tree, and return to wherever you came from.” All those words in his definitive tone add up to one: Leave. But I’m not going anywhere without the security of this property signed on a dotted line.

“Now Mr. Harrington,” I say. Lowering my hand, I place both on the hood of my car. The problem is I’m still looking up at him, so I’m not really in a position of authority to talk him down. This always looks good in the movies, but it’s clearly not working with my five-foot-seven stature compared to his six-foot-plus-too-many-extra-inches height.

“Giant,” he states, and I stop.

“Excuse me?”

“Everyone calls me Giant.”

“Well, Mr. Giant—”