Page 3 of Silver Brewer

“What do you want with the land?” he interjects, his voice still thunder deep but not so menacing.

“I work for Mullen Realty in Chicago, and we’d like to acquire this property for a resort—”

“A resort?” he huffs, his arms falling to his sides as he interrupts me. He turns his large head to the side, giving me a view of his profile. Strong facial features, a sharp nose broken at least once, and a tic to his jaw as he concentrates on something in the distance. “Do you know anything about this property, Cricket?”

“Olivet,” I correct. “And yes, I do. I know it’s a fine piece of land situated perfectly for a beautiful resort that will offer people peace and tranquility away from their hectic lives.” I ramble off the future brochure sure to include such words to entice potential visitors. The serenity around us reminds me I’m not far off from my speculation.

He harrumphs, crossing his arms again. Not as fierce as the first time and more casual in nature, he shakes his head as though he’s laughing at me. Only he isn’t laughing. “It’s not for sale.”

I dismiss his words, considering what he would look like with laughter on his face. Would his cheeks glow? His mouth spread? I bet he has white teeth. A smile and a good chuckle might set him on fire. He’s already larger than life in size, but with a good guffaw, he’d be bigger than thunder. A Greek god of sound and stature.

He’s staring at me, and I realize I’ve taken too long to respond. I eye the cabin behind him. Rustic is one word for it. Cozy, graying, inviting. I rid the possibility of seeing the inside from my head. He probably hides bodies under the porch. I chuckle with the thought. He’s fierce but not fearsome. There’s just something about him. My head tilts, and my eyes pinch. I decide to change tactics. A new appeal.

“If it’s a matter of money—”

“I don’t need money.” He scoffs, cutting me off and glaring at me again with a look of offense. “There isn’t enough money in the world for me to give up this place.”

My mouth pops open. “So, you are George Harrington the second?”

“I told you, I’m Giant, and I think we’re done here, Cricket.”

“Now, Mr. Harrington—”

He turns his back to me, that beautifully muscular back. My mouth waters, and I want to kiss up the river of his spine and along the flexing plains of his shoulder blades, which is absolutely ridiculous, considering he’s a stranger. Besides, I’ve sworn off men. Pretty men with fancy names. No thank you. Although this man isn’t pretty. He’s weathered and worn like the cabin behind him, and for once, I’d like to be a little less straitlaced and buttoned-up. The collar of my blouse itches.

“Name your price, Mr. Harrington,” I shout to his retreating back. He’s abandoned the wood pile and stalks toward the low porch. Without touching the first stair, he steps up to the platform, swallowed by the shade of the overhang. My eyes are fixated on two firm globes filling out his Carhartt pants. Oh my. Within seconds, he’s disappeared inside the cabin, closing the door on my proposal.

Well, that certainly didn’t go as planned.

2

No Sale. Maybe.

[Giant]

Who the fuck was she?

I’m still pondering the answer to that question as I return to the main house on Mountain Spring Lane—nicknamed the Lane by those of us who grew up on it. I’m still fired up over that insect of a woman, chirping away, asking questions, and wanting me to sell. Ha.

“Who sent that woman up the mountain?” I bark. I hold back the profanity itching to explode out of my mouth, knowing my mama would still whoop my ass for such words.

“Giant, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elaina Harrington says all sugar sweet and false honey. My mother is the queen of nosy, and from the look on her face, she’s put her nose where it doesn’t belong. I didn’t need to stop at the house, but I was passing the Lane on my way back to town.

“Better question is why would you think I’d sell the cabin?” My mother believes I spend too much time up there hiding out to avoid life. Unfortunately for her, I don’t care what she thinks. The cabin is mine, and I’m not avoiding anything. I like it up there. In the peace and quiet, I’m away from my mother’s attempt to intervene in my life. For God’s sake, I’m almost fifty.

She doesn’t miss a beat as she sets the dining room table. I internally sigh. The size of the spread means my younger sister will be coming over with her new beau—or rather her former best friend, newly returned to finally profess his love for my baby sister some twenty-years later. The bloom of love my sister has found after the death of her husband has my mother playing matchmaker for me. The formality of the dinner plates hints that more than Mati and Denton will be joining us. My mother hasn’t answered my question before I add, “Who’s coming to dinner, the queen?”

I shouldn’t ask.

“Mati’s friend, Alyce Wright. She’s perfect.” For you. I don’t have to hear the words to know what she isn’t saying. My mother straightens from setting down the knives and looks up at me. “You know, it could happen again.” Her voice softens. She’s wrong, and this isn’t up for discussion—again. Damn Mati for being happy.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I snap a little harsher than I intend, but my mother’s matchmaking efforts piss me off. Or maybe it’s the little spark inside my chest at that firecracker of a woman spewing her offer.

Name your price, Mr. Harrington.

As I told her, no sale. There isn’t enough money in the world to take the land off my hands, but my irritation ignites from more than her pecking away at me with her fancy marketing jargon. It’s the look she was giving me. Her bright blue eyes narrowed in on my chest, walking their way down my midsection and landing at my zipper. I had a little fun with her without intending to do it in that respect. She didn’t even flinch at getting caught, just looked as if she might be hungry. She probably eats nails for breakfast. I snort to myself. A pretty brunette like her, all city slicked up in her dark suit and heels, isn’t going to go for someone like me, even if I do have money to my name.

The money is of no consequence. I’m a fourth generation Harrington. Fourth generation George Harrington, to be specific. The second at the end of my name marks I’m the son to the junior, named after his daddy. We’re beer men, making it behind barn doors until it became legal to craft beer in Georgia. Our granddad used to joke we were here before Georgia began. Giant Brewing Company is our brand, and I’m the chief executive operator under my so-called retired father.