Centuria Books · Sugar & Sawdust
Sugar & Sawdust — Read the First Chapter
A mountain of a contractor decides the exhausted baker fixing her own condemned bakery never has to carry the weight alone again — she just has to let him.
Check Engine Light
The cold in the inherited bakery didn’t just bite; it gnawed right through my thin sweater and settled deep into my bones. I stared up at the water stain spreading across the sagging ceiling like a dark, mocking bruise. Please don’t cave in. I gripped the edges of the flour-dusted countertop until my knuckles turned white. My entire life—every dime I’d scraped together, every bridge I’d burned in the city—was tied up in this crumbling mountain-town ruin. I was supposed to be a pastry chef, not a miracle worker.
I wanted to fill this space with the scent of browned butter, warm vanilla, and caramelized sugar. I desperately wanted to prove I could build something beautiful all on my own, just like I always had. But the crushing weight of the groaning pipes, the shattered front door, and the impossible mountain of labor was choking me.
What if I couldn’t carry it this time? For the first time in my fiercely independent life, a terrifying thought crept in: I can’t do this alone. I squeezed my eyes shut against the prickle of exhausted tears. I just needed one break. One sign that I wasn’t going to drown under the debris.
The contractor I hired over the phone back in Seattle took my entire deposit and completely vanished. My bank account currently held exactly three hundred and forty dollars. The grand opening was scheduled in one month. Right now, I didn’t even have a functioning toilet.
Wind howled through the broken front window, scattering dead mountain-pine needles across the warped hardwood. The air smelled of wet rot and decades of neglect. This place was called Sugar and Sawdust in my head. Right now, it was just sawdust. And ice. The commercial ovens I ordered were scheduled to arrive soon. If I didn’t have the structural integrity of this place secured by then, the delivery men would leave them in the snowdrifts out front.
I grabbed my metal scraper from my canvas tool bag. I attacked the ancient, sticky grime coating the display case glass. My breathing came in short, white plumes of frost. Every scrape of the metal echoed in the vast, empty room. My shoulders burned. I wiped the glass down with a freezing rag. It looked worse than when I started.
Then, a sound cut through the noise of the mountain wind.
High. Thin. Desperate.
A frantic wailing from beneath the floor.
I dropped the scraper. It clattered loudly against the tile. I moved toward the front window, stepping over piles of shattered glass and debris. The floorboards here dipped dangerously. The wood was black with old water damage.
A tiny paw scratched against the underside of the oak planks.
“Hey.” I knelt on the cracked boards. “Are you stuck?”
Another miserable, freezing mewl answered me. A stray kitten. Trapped in the crawlspace, right where the icy draft funneled through the cracked stone foundation. The temperature was dropping fast. The sun dipped lower behind the jagged peaks outside. If that animal stayed down there tonight, it would freeze solid.
I fell fully to my knees. The impact sent a sharp shock of pain up my shins. I jammed my bare fingers into the tight crack between the two most rotted boards. The wood was swollen with moisture and frozen tight.
I pulled upward. My muscles strained. The board refused to budge.
The kitten cried louder, a ragged, terrified screech that twisted my gut into tight knots.
“I’m getting you out.” I pressed my face close to the floor. “Just hold on.”
I wedged my fingers deeper. The rough, splintered edge of the old oak bit deeply into my skin. I dug my heels into the floor and threw my entire body weight backward. The wood gave a sick crack. Sharp splinters sliced straight through my cuticles. Hot blood welled up instantly, slipping down my palms and staining the dark wood. I ignored the stinging pain. I yanked again. The board lifted a quarter of an inch, then jammed completely against a rusted nail.
I let out a harsh cry, my chest heaving. The mountain cold ripped away my strength. I dug my bloody nails into the gap one more time, preparing to tear the wood apart with pure adrenaline.
Then came the heavy crunch of boots on the snow-dusted porch.
The shattered front door groaned backward on rusted hinges. Bootsteps, heavy and deliberate, thudded against the hardwood. The sound was not frantic. It was the slow, measured pace of a man who owned the ground he walked on. A massive shadow stretched across the dusty floor, completely swallowing the weak afternoon light.
I scrambled to look over my shoulder, my bleeding hands still wedged in the floorboards.
The man taking up the entire doorway was a mountain. He wore a heavy, faded flannel shirt that stretched dangerously tight across a chest completely devoid of softness. Broad, impossible shoulders tapered down into a thick waist. The sleeves of his flannel were shoved up past his elbows, revealing thick, ropey forearms corded with heavy muscle and dusted with dark hair. Dirt, grease, and sawdust deeply stained the heavy, dark denim hugging his thick thighs.
My mouth went completely dry. A hot, heavy flush washed over my skin, completely chasing away the freezing air. He wore a thick leather toolbelt slung low over his hips, drawing my gaze directly to the heavy steel hammer resting against his thigh. The leather loops hugged the sharp V of his pelvis. Every inch of him vibrated with raw, unadulterated strength. His hands hung at his sides. They were huge. Thick fingers, heavily calloused palms, knuckles dusted with pale silver scars from years of brutal physical labor. His jaw was square and covered in dark, rough stubble. His dark hair was thick and messy, dusting the heavy canvas collar of his jacket. He was terrifying. He was the most intensely attractive man I had ever seen.
He marched across the room. He didn’t ask what I was doing. He didn’t introduce himself.
He stopped right in front of me. His massive, steel-toed boots planted firmly on either side of the broken floorboard. I had to crane my neck aggressively just to see his face.
“Move.” The single word rolled out of his chest, deep and rough, vibrating straight through the floor and into my bones.
I scrambled backward, entirely overwhelmed by his proximity. I hit the edge of the display counter and stayed there.
He dropped into a crouch. The thick denim tightened over the massive muscles of his thighs. He didn’t look at me. He looked perfectly at the cracked floorboard. He reached down with his huge, scarred hands. He wrapped his thick fingers around the splintered oak where I had just been bleeding.
He didn’t strain. He didn’t brace himself.
His broad shoulders rolled backward exactly once. The thick muscles of his back flexed beneath the heavy flannel.
Crack.
The stubborn, inch-thick oak board snapped clean in half like a dry twig. He tossed the ruined wood over his shoulder. It hit the wall with a loud thud.
He reached his massive hand down into the dark, freezing gap.
A second later, he pulled his hand back. A tiny, shivering ball of orange fur rested in his massive palm. The stray kitten was so small it didn’t even cover his fingers. It wailed, a pathetic, high-pitched screech.
The giant’s face instantly shifted. The harsh, severe lines of his jaw completely softened. He pulled the tiny animal directly to his broad chest. He unzipped the top of his heavy canvas jacket and tucked the kitten inside, right against his warm flannel shirt.
His huge, grease-stained thumb reached down. He stroked the top of the tiny kitten’s head. The contrast was staggering—this brutal, scarred hand moving with impossible, fluid gentleness. He rubbed the soft spot behind the kitten’s ears. The wailing stopped immediately. The kitten let out a tiny purr, burrowing its freezing nose into the heat of his massive chest.
My throat tightened. I stared at him, completely captivated. He had destroyed the obstacle in a single second, entirely to offer comfort to a helpless creature.
Then, he zipped his jacket halfway to secure the kitten. He stood up to his full, towering height.
The tender caretaker vanished instantly.
His demeanor flipped with terrifying speed. He turned his fierce, harsh focus directly onto me. A dark scowl carved deep lines into his face. A muscle feathered in his sharp jaw. His dark stare pinned me in place.
“What the hell are you doing?” His voice cracked like a whip in the empty room.
I flinched back. “I was getting the kitten—”
“Step back from the load-bearing wall before you get hurt. Now.”
He pointed a thick, heavily scarred finger at the sagging archway directly above where I had just been kneeling. The cracked plaster groaned audibly under the heavy weight of the roof snow.
I pressed my spine harder against the display case. “I wasn’t going to let it freeze.”
“You were going to pry up a structural floorboard with your bare hands directly beneath a failing header beam?” He closed the distance between us in two long, predatory strides. He stopped exactly six inches away. The absolute width of his chest completely blocked the faint light from the window. The scent of fresh sawdust, cold snow, and clean, masculine sweat rolled off him in a dizzying wave.
He reached out. Before I could pull away, his massive fingers wrapped around my wrists. The heat radiating off his skin burned straight through my freezing limbs. He lifted my hands, inspecting my torn cuticles and bleeding palms. His grip was an immovable vice. Not painful, but completely inescapable.
His jaw clenched tighter. The muscle jumped again beneath his skin. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just a splinter.” I tried to pull my hands back.
He didn’t let go. His rough thumbs brushed over my torn skin, a calloused, rasping friction that sent a hot jolt straight up my arms. Gooseflesh rose rapidly over my skin. “You don’t know the first thing about this building. The foundation is compromised. The plumbing froze solid three days ago. That header beam is three degrees away from collapsing and crushing you flat.”
“I inherited this place.” I shoved my chin up, refusing to look away from his dark, harsh glare. I wouldn’t let this massive stranger intimidate me out of my own bakery. “It belongs to me.”
“Right now, it’s a death trap.” He dropped my hands. He hooked his scarred thumbs into the thick leather of his toolbelt. “Pack your bags. Get in your car. You’re leaving.”
“Excuse me?” The air rushed out of me. My chest heaved. “You can’t walk in here and tell me to leave my own property.”
“I’m the contractor the city called to condemn this structure tomorrow morning.” He stood exactly over me, his broad shoulders casting a long, dark shadow. “I’m telling you to leave before you get killed.”
“No.”
The single word hung in the freezing air between us.
He stared at me. He didn’t yell. He didn’t argue. He simply stood there, an immovable mountain of muscle and denim, entirely unaccustomed to being challenged by anyone, let alone a woman half his size.
“I’m not leaving,” I repeated. My voice shook, but I forced my spine straight. I wiped my bleeding hands on the thighs of my jeans. “I’m going to fix it. I’m going to open a pastry shop.”
He tracked the movement of my hands. He looked deliberately around the room. He cataloged the shattered displays. The leaking ceiling. The frozen pipes. The damp rot creeping up the walls.
“You’re going to fix it.” A dark amusement lit his harsh face, entirely devoid of humor. “You weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet and you can’t even pull a single rotted floorboard.”
“I’ll figure it out.” My pulse thrashed wildly against my throat.
“You stay in this building tonight, you freeze to death.” He crossed his massive arms over his expansive chest. “The boiler is dead in the basement.”
“I brought heavy blankets.”
He let out a harsh breath through his nose. He reached into his jacket, his massive hand gently checking on the sleeping kitten one more time. The absolute contrast between his harsh words and his protective actions made my head spin. He unclipped a heavy steel flashlight from his hip.
“Go sit in that chair.” He pointed the heavy flashlight toward a sturdy wooden stool near the front register.
“Why?”
“Because if you walk under that archway again, I’ll physically carry you out the front door and lock it behind you.” The threat rolled out of him low and rough. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. He would do it perfectly easily.
I swallowed hard. My throat clicked in the quiet room.
I moved to the stool. I sat down.
He turned his broad back to me. He began inspecting the sagging archway, shining the bright beam of his flashlight directly into the cracking plaster. Dust showered down over his dark hair and his broad shoulders. He completely ignored it. He moved with a quiet, efficient grace that entirely contradicted his massive bulk. Every single movement was precise. Calculating. He wasn’t just looking at the damage; he was completely dismantling the problem in his head.
The silence stretched out. Just the sound of his heavy boots moving across the floorboards. The occasional scratch of his pen against a small notepad he pulled from his back pocket.
Violent tremors wracked my body. The adrenaline completely faded, leaving me painfully aware of the freezing draft. I rubbed my arms, wrapping my fingers tightly around my biceps. My bleeding palms throbbed with a dull, steady ache.
He stopped writing. He slid the notepad back into his tight denim pocket. Without a single word, he marched past me, out the open front door, and down the snow-covered steps.
I sat entirely alone in the freezing bakery. My stomach sank heavily. He left.
Of course he left. The massive contractor who just barked orders at me realized this place was a complete lost cause and walked away. I was alone again. Just like always. The weight of the failing building pressed down on my shoulders, heavier than before.
I stared at my bloody palms. Maybe he was exactly right. Maybe I was stupid to think I could salvage this ruin.
Boot steps thumped heavily on the front porch.
He ducked back through the doorway. He carried a huge wooden beam easily over one wide shoulder. His heavy steel toolbox swung from his other hand. He didn’t look at the door. He didn’t look at the snow.
He dropped the massive toolbox onto the floorboards with a deafening crash. He walked straight over to me.
He stood over my stool, dominating my space once again. His calloused, dirty hands rested solidly on his hips, right above his heavy toolbelt.
“Do not move from that spot.” He scowled down at me. “I’m fixing the header before the roof comes down on your ridiculous head.”
Handing Over the Keys
The sagging load-bearing header above the archway was a widow-maker.
Grady popped the rusted metal latches on his steel toolbox. The hinges shrieked in the quiet room. He pulled out a laser measure, snapping the sharp red dot from the damp floor to the bowing plaster above. Nine feet, four inches. The rotted pine groaned, buckling under the relentless pressure of a foot of mountain snowpack sitting on the roof. One bad gust of wind, and the ceiling would come crashing down, crushing everything beneath it.
Crushing her.
Inside his unzipped canvas jacket, the stray kitten slept against his chest. A tiny, vibrating furnace. Grady ignored the freezing wind whipping through the shattered front window. He dragged the thick six-by-six oak post he had hauled in from his truck across the warped floorboards. Splinters bit into his calloused palms. He welcomed the sting. The sharp friction grounded him.
He set a cast-iron hydraulic bottle jack beneath a temporary brace. He gripped the steel handle, pumping it with relentless, driving strokes. The cold air burned his lungs. Sweat broke along his hairline, trickling down his neck to soak the collar of his flannel. Muscle fibers tore and burned in his broad shoulders as he forced the stubborn jack upward. The rotting house shrieked in protest. Plaster dust showered down, coating his dark hair and his back in a fine white grit.
He did not stop until the ceiling lifted a fraction of an inch. Just enough. He kicked the oak post into the gap, aligning it plumb. He drew his framing hammer from his leather belt. Three brutal, driving swings buried the steel nails deep into the wood, locking the temporary support securely into place.
The immediate threat of death vanished.
Grady dropped the hammer back into its leather loop. He wiped his dirty brow with the back of his wrist. He turned around.
Maisie sat exactly where he put her. Perched on the wobbly wooden stool, her knees pressed tight together. Her thin sweater offered zero protection against the bitter mountain draft. Violet shadows bruised the delicate skin beneath her wide eyes. Dried blood flaked around her torn cuticles. She gripped an old metal paint scraper in her pale hands, her knuckles stark white.
She looked ready to fight him for the right to freeze to death.
A harsh, possessive instinct coiled tight in Grady’s gut. The urge to drag her off that stool, wrap her in his thick coat, and carry her out to his heated truck was a physical ache. She was too small. Too fragile to be fighting a collapsing building on her own. But he recognized the fierce, defensive tilt of her chin. She was used to fighting alone. If he barked another order at her, if he treated her like a problem to be solved, she would bolt into the snow.
He needed to prove she did not have to fight him. He needed to build the safety with his own two hands.
Grady walked past her without a single word. He crossed the room, his steel-toed boots crunching loudly over the shattered glass littering the floor. He stepped out onto the snow-packed porch. The mountain wind bit at his sweat-dampened neck. He reached into the cab of his truck, grabbing his battered steel thermos, a thick roll of visqueen plastic, and a stiff push broom.
When he stepped back inside, Maisie had moved.
She stood near the display cases, her small shoulders hunched against the cold. She raised the metal scraper, aiming it at a patch of hardened grime on the glass. Her hands shook violently. The metal blade skittered off the surface, accomplishing nothing.
He closed the distance between them in three long strides.
He stopped inches behind her. The top of her blonde head barely reached the middle of his broad chest. The scent of vanilla bean, old sugar, and cold sweat drifted up from her hair, sinking straight into his blood. He set the supplies on the counter.
“Sit down.” His voice came out a rough rumble.
Maisie stiffened. “I need to clean this. The grand opening—”
“Is a month away.” Grady reached around her. He did not ask for permission. He wrapped his large, scarred hand directly over hers.
Her skin was ice. A sharp jolt of raw heat spiked up his forearm at the contact. He swallowed a rough sound. He worked his rough thumb over her bruised knuckles, prying her stiff, freezing fingers open one by one. She gasped softly. He ignored the sound, pulling the metal scraper from her grip and tossing it onto the counter. It clattered against the glass.
He stepped closer, backing her flush against the display case. He trapped her between his solid body and the wood. He stared down at her hands. The deep cuts on her palms from the broken floorboard stopped bleeding, but they were raw and red.
“You are running on fumes.” He kept his voice low. He did not break contact, his rough callouses sliding over her delicate wrists. “Sit.”
Maisie’s throat clicked as she swallowed. Her gaze flicked up to his face, tracking the harsh line of his jaw. She did not argue this time. She stepped around him and sank back onto the wooden stool.
Grady unscrewed the cap of his thermos. Steam poured into the frigid air, carrying the bitter, dark scent of black coffee. He filled the metal cup to the brim. He walked over and pressed the hot steel into her palms.
“Drink it.”
She wrapped both hands around the cup, absorbing the heat. She brought it to her lips and took a slow sip. Color rushed back into her pale cheeks. A tiny, ragged sigh slipped past her lips.
The sound twisted low in Grady’s groin. He forced his attention away from her mouth.
He grabbed the stiff push broom. He turned his back to her and went to work.
He swept the shattered glass with brutal efficiency. The stiff bristles scraped across the hardwood, gathering decades of dirt, dead pine needles, and broken window panes into a neat pile. He fell into the steady, methodical rhythm of labor. Sweep. Gather. Shovel. Dump. He cleared the debris blocking the front door. He scraped the frozen mud from the entryway. He reduced the chaotic disaster zone into a manageable workspace.
Every few seconds, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. She was watching him.
He could feel her tracking the flex of his back muscles beneath his flannel. He wanted her to look. He wanted her to see exactly what he could do for her. He tossed the last pile of broken glass into a rusted trash bin near the door.
Next, he grabbed the roll of visqueen plastic and a specialized staple gun from his belt. He kicked a wooden crate toward the shattered front window and stepped onto it. He measured the gaping hole with a single glance. He unrolled the thick plastic, pulling it taut across the wooden frame.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
He drove the industrial staples into the oak with rapid, punishing force. The howling wind outside slammed against the plastic, but the visqueen held firm. The relentless draft funneling into the bakery died instantly. The temperature in the room stopped dropping.
Grady stepped down from the crate. He brushed the sawdust from his thighs.
Maisie sat on the stool, the empty metal cup clutched against her chest. The frantic, terrified energy that had consumed her ten minutes ago was gone. Her shoulders dropped. The rigid line of her spine softened. Her breathing evened out, no longer hitching with panic.
She looked safe.
“Why are you doing this?” Her voice broke the quiet rhythm of the room. It was soft. Hesitant.
Grady walked toward her. He stopped a foot away, letting his towering height cast a protective shadow over her. He hooked his thumbs into his leather toolbelt, the steel hammer resting against his thigh. He looked down into her wide, exhausted eyes.
“The roof was going to crush you.” He stated the fact plainly.
“That doesn’t explain the coffee.” She traced the rim of the metal cup. “Or the plastic over the window. The other guy I hired took a look at this place, demanded double the deposit, and never came back.”
A muscle tightened in Grady’s jaw. He would find the man who stole from her and break his jaw in three places. But right now, he needed to keep her grounded.
“I’m not the other guy.” Grady reached out. He placed two rough, grease-stained fingers under her chin, tilting her face up. Her skin was so soft it made his chest ache. “You hire a boy, he complains about the work. You want this place fixed, you stand back and let me swing the hammer.”
Her pulse fluttered wildly against his fingertips. Her lips parted. The scent of vanilla spiked in the air between them, sweet and sharp. Every instinct roared at him to lean down, to taste that sweetness, to back her into the counter and show her how much pressure he could exert.
Instead, he dropped his hand.
“The boiler in the basement is shot.” He stepped back, severing the physical connection before he lost his grip on his restraint. “I’m going downstairs. I will get the heat running. Do not touch another piece of glass until I come back.”
He did not wait for her to agree. He turned toward the narrow doorway leading to the basement stairs. The cracked concrete groaned under his boots. He descended into the dark, his pulse slamming a rough, steady rhythm against his ribs. He had a rusted boiler to tear apart. He had a shop to rebuild. And an exhausted pastry chef upstairs he was never going to walk away from.
Calloused Hands and Caught Breath
The floorboards groan beneath my boots. The silence in the upper level of the bakery presses inward, heavy and oppressive. The only sound comes from the muffled, rhythmic clang of heavy steel striking iron from the basement. Grady went down into the dark over an hour ago. The ambient temperature in the room hovers just above freezing, leaving a dull throb in my joints. I huddle deeper into my thin sweater. I stare at the thick visqueen plastic stapled over the shattered front window. The material bulges inward, fighting the relentless force of the mountain wind.
My whole life, I have waited for the other shoe to drop. People rarely give without taking. They do not step into a chaotic disaster, brace a collapsing ceiling, sweep up shattered glass, and ask for nothing. The defensive, fiercely guarded part of my brain insists I need to chase him out. If I let go of the impossible weight I carry alone, what happens when he walks away? I will shatter faster than the broken glass currently sitting in the trash bin. I built my career in the city by fighting uphill battles without a safety net. I survived by refusing help, by never letting a man dictate my limits.
But listening to the steady, calculated strike of his hammer below, a dangerous warmth settles low in my chest. He fixed the structural beam. He stopped the draft. In a cardboard box near the register, wrapped in one of my spare shop towels, the stray kitten sleeps soundly. He stopped the chaos.
Financial ruin breathes down my neck. I possess exactly three hundred dollars in my checking account. My industrial ovens arrive in a week. I should be pacing the floorboards. I should be hyperventilating into a paper bag. Instead, the rhythmic sound of his tools acts as a bizarre sedative, grounding my frantic pulse.
The cold finally bites through the thin wool of my sleeves. I rub my arms, my torn cuticles stinging from the friction. I need to move. I edge toward the open doorway leading down to the basement. The wooden stairs are cracked, the edges worn smooth by decades of heavy boots. A single bare bulb swings from the low ceiling below, casting harsh yellow light across the damp stone foundation. Dust dances in the weak beam. The basement smells of old wet earth, rusted metal, and the sharp tang of ozone.
I stop on the fourth step down. The wooden tread bows under my weight.
Grady stands in front of the massive, rusted iron beast of the old boiler. He shed his heavy canvas jacket thirty minutes ago. Now, he works in just his faded flannel, the sleeves shoved high above his elbows. The shirt clings to his broad back, damp with sweat. A heavy leather toolbelt rides low on his hips, weighted down with hammers, wrenches, and thick steel pliers.
The brutal mass of the man defies logic. Thick, ropey muscle shifts beneath his sun-browned skin with every harsh turn of his wrench. His forearms are corded with heavy veins, dusted in dark hair and streaked with black grease. The heavy leather toolbelt rides low on his hips, drawing my gaze directly to the sharp V of his pelvis and the thick, powerful columns of his thighs encased in worn denim. He braces his wide stance against the concrete floor, immovable and raw. Every flex of his back radiates pure, unadulterated strength. A heavy heat pools low in my stomach. The man is a walking powerhouse of capability, tearing into the rusted metal with calloused, scarred hands that I have spent the last hour imagining wrapped around my waist.
He grunts, a low, rough rumble that vibrates straight up the wooden stairs and hums in the soles of my boots. Metal screeches against metal. He leans his weight into a massive pipe wrench, his severe jaw clenching tight. The tendons in his neck stand out like thick cords. He does not quit. He attacks the rusted problem with relentless, punishing force.
Clang.
Sparks shower the damp floor. The old iron boiler groans, a sound like a waking beast. A deep, mechanical shudder rips through the basement, rattling the rusted pipes bolted to the joists overhead. Water hisses somewhere deep inside the machine.
Grady drops the heavy wrench. It hits the concrete floor with a sharp crack. He reaches up. His thick fingers grip a heavy brass valve. He turns it with a rough twist of his wrist.
A heavy wave of ignition flares inside the cast-iron belly. The pilot light catches. The dull roar of burning gas fills the tight space, echoing off the stone walls.
Upward, through the floorboards, the rattling sound of the ductwork begins. Then, a rush of air pushes through the metal grates.
I reach my hand up toward the rusted vent hanging right above the stairwell. Heat. Actual, blistering heat blasts over my freezing fingers. The bitter chill clinging to my skin dissolves. The relief hits so hard my knees go momentarily weak. I grab the wooden handrail to steady myself.
“You fixed it.” The words slip past my lips, breathless and quiet.
Grady turns. His broad chest heaves once. Grease stains his jaw, and a dark smudge of ancient rust marks his cheekbone. The bare bulb casts a severe shadow over his brow, putting the harsh, uncompromising lines of his face on full display. He pulls a shop rag from his back pocket and wipes his dirty palms, dragging the rough cloth over his scarred knuckles.
“The primary intake valve was seized solid.” He tosses the rag onto a nearby wooden workbench. “Replaced the rusted threading. Repacked the seal. It will hold through the winter.”
He speaks about saving my business like he just tied his boots. The impossible mountain of anxiety I carried since stepping foot in this town cracks down the middle. The upcoming grand opening. The missing ovens. The frozen plumbing. I spent weeks losing sleep over issues he just crushed with his bare hands.
I descend the final steps. The heat radiating from the boiler warms the room, but the heat rolling off his massive frame burns hotter. I close the distance between us, stepping over scattered tools, loose pipe fittings, and coils of copper wire.
He goes still. His dark stare tracks my movement, sharp and assessing. He stands a full head and shoulders above me, a looming giant in the cramped cellar.
“You should be upstairs near the registers.” His voice is a low gravel rasp. “The heat rises first. You are shivering.”
“I am fine.” I stop directly in front of him. I have to crane my neck so far it aches just to look at his face. “I do not know how to thank you. The other contractor told me this boiler was beyond repair. He said it would cost ten thousand dollars to replace. Money I do not have.”
“The other contractor was a lazy coward.” Grady crosses his arms over his expansive chest. The movement pulls the flannel taut over his biceps. “You do not replace good iron just because you are afraid of a little elbow grease. It needed pressure and leverage.”
My throat clicks as I swallow. “How much do I owe you for the valve?”