Page 1 of Garrett

Chapter 1

Rachel

“Elena, I’m going to murder someone if I don’t get more contractor recommendations. Every single one I spoke to is booked until—”

The words die in my throat as I burst through the gallery door my friend Elena is opening. My brother Ryder had warned me that good contractors were scarce in Montana this time of year, but after living in New York City I didn’t realize just how scarce good help could be.

When Elena decided to make her visit to Heart River permanent, I guess I did too. Now I’m learning all about living in the mountains, surrounded by big brooding mountain men.

Example: The man balancing on the scaffolding above me is pure danger wrapped in a black t-shirt. Dark hair pulled back reveals a tattoo curling up his neck, and the way his muscles flex as he adjusts the massive sculpture makes my mouth go dry. He turns his head, and storm-gray eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath.

The sculpture shifts. In a move that belongs in an action movie, he catches it one-handed while somehow swinging around to face me fully, now hanging off the scaffolding like gravity is optional.

“Hi.” His voice is rough velvet.

I’ve handled multi-million dollar art deals. Navigated New York’s cutthroat gallery scene. Built a reputation that has collectors begging for my attention. But something about the way he’s looking at me short-circuits my usually quick tongue.

“That’s quite an entrance,” I finally manage.

“I like to hang around pretty women.” The corner of his mouth ticks up in a smile that probably melts panties across three states.

“Smooth.” I fight my own smile, falling into the familiar rhythm of banter even as my pulse races. “Do you always do your installations one-handed, or am I special?”

“You should see what I can do with no hands.”

Heat floods my cheeks. Jake, Elena’s husband, makes a choking sound from somewhere below.

“If you two are done,” Elena cuts in, barely containing her grin, “this very expensive piece is still not actually attached to my wall.” She catches my eye with a look that promises detailed interrogation later. We’ve been best friends since freshman year of college, and I know that gleam in her eye.

Right. The whole reason I came here. My contractor crisis. “They’re all booked for months,” I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Apparently deciding to renovate six cabins heading into winter wasn’t my brightest move.”

The man above me secures the final mount with precise movements that draw my attention to his hands. Strong hands. Capable hands. Hands that probably know exactly how to—

“Rachel just bought a fixer-upper retreat,” Jake’s voice breaks into my completely inappropriate thoughts. His arm slides around Elena’s waist as he adds, “You know, you’re between jobs right now...”

“I am.” He steps down from the scaffolding with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone that size. Up close, he’s even more devastating. “And I do have experience with mountain renovations.”

The rational part of my brain—the part that built a successful business through careful planning and smart decisions—is screaming that this is a terrible idea. But the part of me that bought a run-down property on a whim because I was suffocating in my perfect New York life? That part is very interested.

“Do you also have experience with electricity that doesn’t short out every time it snows?” I challenge. “Heat that actually heats? Plumbing that—”

“Honey,” he interrupts, and somehow the condescending endearment in that rough voice sends heat straight to my core, “I once built an entire forward operating base from scratch. In a war zone. Pretty sure I can handle some cabins.”

Military. That explains the way he moves, the alertness in his eyes. And the attitude, apparently.

“Did you just call me honey?”

“Would you prefer ‘ma’am’?”

“I’d prefer Rachel. Rachel Winston.”

“Rachel Winston.” He says my name like he’s tasting it, like a promise and a challenge wrapped in those syllables. “I can start tomorrow. But I’ll need a place to stay while I work.”

Elena shoots me a look that clearly says ‘hire him before I do it for you.’ Easy for her to say—she already got her happy ending with Jake. At twenty-five, I should probably be more cautious about hiring mysterious men who look like they could bench press my car.

The smart answer would be to keep looking. To find a proper contractor with references and insurance and a business license. To not hire a man who makes me want to climb him like that scaffolding, no matter how capable he seems.

But I didn’t leave New York to make smart choices.

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