Chapter One
Gabby
The sun is already high in the sky, baking the cement beneath my feet as I push the button for the bay door that leads from the auto shop. My brother and I own the auto garage in Courage County. You wouldn’t know that by his absence. Andy is rarely here, preferring to spend his days gambling and drinking rather than building our family’s namesake.
He’s twelve years older than me. He raised me after our parents died when I was just eight. He reminds me of this frequently, telling me I should be grateful for all he’s done for me.
Now that I’m twenty-one, I should leave him. I should let him figure out this disaster of a business himself. But the thought of losing my family’s legacy, of losing everything my parents have worked so hard for, makes my stomach hurt. I can’t stand the idea that I’ll lose the last piece of them.
My brother doesn’t seem to care about that. Andy keeps gambling and running games out of our little trailer on the edge of town. It’s bad enough that what he does is illegal. Lately, the clientele has gotten rougher, meaner.
The locks on my door wake me as opportunistic men check to see if they work. They’ve held for now, but it’s getting to the point where I can’t sleep. I know one day someone won’t bother with the doorknob. They’ll kick the flimsy door down, and I doubt my brother will protect me. I’ll be on my own.
The bay doors rise, interrupting my thoughts. The sight of a familiar rusted truck makes my heart skip a beat. I know exactly who that truck belongs to. I know who’s in the driver’s seat.
It’s Roman, a local man who lives in the mountains here. I’ve heard the rumors that swirl around him. He’s done hard time. He’s gruff and impatient. He also owns the most successful construction business in the southeast. But here’s what I know about him that no one else does: he’s lonely.
I don’t know how I know that. It’s something in his eyes, the pain he only lets me see. But loneliness isn’t the only thing I see in Roman’s eyes when he looks at me.
I also see hunger. It’s raw masculine energy. To a girl that’s as inexperienced as I am, it’s like a siren calling me to the rocks. I want to crash into the rocky shore that is Roman. If I go down with the ship, then so be it.
I gesture for him to move his vehicle forward and step into the tiny booth where we keep our paperwork.
I reach for one of the little mints in the candy dish. People think it’s for the customers. It’s for me, so I can grab a quick breath mint whenever I see Roman coming in. Admittedly, he comes in a lot. It’s always something with his truck.
Last week, it was the spark plugs. Before that, he needed the oil changed. These are tasks that I’m certain Roman could do himself. He’s not just big and strong, he’s also smart. Smart enough to run a million-dollar company. It’s another strike against us, another reason he probably hasn’t made a move.
Why would he? We’re not exactly well-matched. He’s all lean muscle and hard angles. I’m soft and curvy. He’s a successful businessman. I’m a struggling auto mechanic who’s always cleaning up her brother’s mess. Roman is older and more experienced. I’m young and well, the only person that’s ever touched me has been myself.
As Roman leaves the truck, the first things I see are his Oxford shoes. Size thirteen if I had to guess. This man is big. He’s hulking, towering over everyone in town. I know what those Oxfords mean. It means he has client meetings today.
He’s wearing dark slacks and a white button-up. His hands are swollen, the knuckles twice the normal size. He struggled to put on the shirt. The knowledge makes my chest ache. I hate the thought of proud, strong Roman struggling with anything.
Seeing him dressed so nicely makes me suddenly aware of how big and baggy my coveralls are. They’re my brother’s, so the size isn’t right. Would Roman ask me out if he saw me in a pretty dress without grease smeared on my hands? Would he finally notice that I’m a woman?
I open my mouth to ask him what I can do for him today and swallow spit from my mint. I strangle over it, wheezing out the words, “What does she need done?”
He frowns at me, but he makes no move to pat me on the back or even ask if I’m OK. I’m not surprised. Roman is aloof with everyone, other than a few friends that also live nearby on the mountain he calls home.
Sometimes, late at night, I wish I could have a crush on a different guy. Someone that struggles like me. Someone attainable.
He shoves his hands in his pockets. He does that a lot around me. I watched him around town, and I’m the only one that he does it in front of. Is he worried that his big hands make him less attractive to me? Does he not want me to be reminded of the arthritis in his joints?
To me, it’s proof that my man has worked hard his whole life. See, that’s the problem right there. He’s not my man. The thought fills me with so much despair that it feels like my heart is breaking right here in front of him.
“Don’t know what’s wrong with her,” he growls out the words. Roman is a growler. I learned this early on about him, but it’s OK. Because I love the way he growls. I love his deep, raspy voice. I love the way it rumbles when he talks. It makes me want to curl up on his chest and put my ear over his skin so I can feel the vibrations.
“Making a funny noise today,” he explains.
He passes me the keys, careful not to let our hands touch. The moment I grasp the cool metal, an overwhelming sense of relief hits me. I have a place to sleep tonight.
Roman is often out of town for several nights in a row, which means I’ll crash at his place. We’ve never talked about it, and I haven’t asked permission. But one night, he gave me the keys, and I stayed there. It was after my brother’s friend wouldn’t stop trying to open my door.
I slept in Roman’s bed that night and woke up smelling like his cologne. It was the first restful sleep I’d had in months, so I left behind some baked goods for him to find when he came home.
Since then, anytime he goes out of town, I stay at his place. It’s not technically breaking and entering because I feed his fish, water his plants, and make sure that his cat has clean water. Then sometimes I wander through the house and clean it. I pretend that it’s my cabin too, that we’re together and he’ll be home any minute.
Of course, then my fantasies take a very different turn. He comes in with a stern gaze, exhausted from hours of work. He’s tense and in desperate need of a release, so he pins me up against the kitchen wall. He captures my hands in one of his and whispers filthy things in my ear as he takes me roughly.
It’s a fantasy that always makes me hot and achy. Every time I have it, I twist and turn in his sheets until I wake up soaking wet.
“Got a big client to impress?” I ask to distract myself from how hot he looks and all the fantasies of what won’t happen. When he is in town, I often drive the two hours to a hostel outside of Asheville and bunk there for a night. The commute is terrible, and sometimes, it doesn’t feel very safe either. But even then, I know it’s safer than staying at home.
“Only one person I ever cared about impressing.” He frowns as soon as he says the words, and I wonder who he worries about impressing.
I want to ask him. I want to ask him if when he goes away, he meets up with a woman. A woman that he spends long nights with. But I’ll never ask the question because I don’t think I want to know the answer.
He nods to the truck, clearly uncomfortable with whatever he said. “Get me an estimate.”
He’s gone before I can even agree with a nod, but that’s Roman. He’s abrupt and gruff. When he’s said what he needs to say, he stops talking. I wish I had that ability. There are a million words in my head, and I want to share them all the time. I want to share them with Roman.
With my brother too hungover to come in to work, the day feels like it lasts a year. We need more qualified mechanics, but we can’t afford to pay someone what they’re worth because of my brother’s debts.
As it is, we barely keep our heads above water. Sometimes, I wonder if my parents are looking down on me from heaven, and if they’re disappointed with me for not doing a better job of holding everything together.
I push back the sad thoughts as I park my old car in front of Roman’s cabin. He builds million-dollar homes for his clients and beautiful industrial complexes. But his own home is a simple cabin nestled in the woods. A person could almost miss it because the rustic log cabin blends into the surrounding forest so easily.
For a minute, I debate parking in his double garage then decide against it. No one is likely to see my car, given how remote his cabin is.
It’s early evening when I slide the key into his lock. The sky overhead rumbles, promising summer thunderstorms soon. The town is expecting several days of severe weather and most of the local businesses are closing this week, including the auto shop. It’s another reason I’m thankful to be at Roman’s place. I won’t have to spend the week cooped up in that wretched trailer.
The moment I’m in the door, I take in a deep breath of the pine scent. The wood paneling makes the place feel cozy and cheerful. It feels like home every time I step in here. When I see those exposed beams and the window wall, the green valley of trees below fills me with a sense of calm.
I drop my duffel bag near the door and unpack the groceries. I move around his kitchen as if it’s my own. Except mine is never this clean. No, there are usually beer cans and cigarettes and too many dirty dishes for me to have the space to cook a meal.
As soon as I get the money together, I’m moving into my own place. For now, the priority is staying on top of the interest for the loans. If I can hang on a little longer, things will turn around. They have to.
I preheat the oven as I wander around the cabin. I’m making chicken parmesan tonight. When I stay at Roman’s cabin, I like to prepare a delicious dinner and some dessert. I always wrap up the leftovers and leave them in his fridge, so he has plenty to eat. He’s a grown man, and it’s crazy that I worry so much about him.
“He can get by on his own, can’t he?” I ask Chester as the tabby cat comes in through the pet door and greets me. He kneads himself against my legs, and I lean down to pet him. I feed his tropical fish next, pausing by the aquarium to talk to them.
The power flickers, but I don’t worry. Roman has a generator. If the place loses electricity, I’ll start it so the filtration system on the tank can keep running. His fish will be fine under my watchful eye.
I water all the plants, even though they look green and healthy. Roman doesn’t own any flowering plants or anything pretty. It’s all ivy that flows in long tendrils.
I’m changing the water in Chester’s bowl even though it looks clean when I hear it. It’s the distinct scrape of a key in a lock, and my heart starts pounding. My mountain man is home early.