1
Zac
I stood upright for a momentary breather, wiping the sweat from my brow with my forearm, while lowering the crowbar I had been using to pry rotting wood from an out of stater client’s porch.
For years, I’d admire this charming cottage whenever I drove past, captivated by its brickwork and blue-and-cream paneling. When it sold a month ago, the new buyer needed to move in right away, and I got the call. Following three weeks of non-stop repairs, I was running on fumes—but deeply grateful for the business.
I grew up a couple of miles farther down the road in a rural mountain town in West Virginia. It was a small town where everyone knew everyone. The economic ramifications the community suffered after the mining companies left most living well below the poverty line, but it was beautiful and community was strong. The town was surrounded by forests, rivers, valleys and meadows, all of which I had spent countless seasons of my life exploring. Friends growing up wanted nothing more to leave and see the world, and many had, but I had always been happy here and couldn’t see myself living anywhere else. It was home.
I was momentarily distracted, daydreaming about kicking back with a whiskey and the air-con blasting at my face at the day’s end, so I hadn’t realized a car had pulled up at the end of the driveway until I heard the sound of a car door slamming immediately followed by a loud thud and the unmistakable sound of glass and ceramic shattering. A string of obscenities being half hissed / shouted that would make even a sailor blush then followed.
I turned toward the calamity and my breath caught in my chest.
A woman, maybe early 30s, in tight black yoga pants and wearing an old band tee peppered with bleach stains hanging off one of her shoulders, was standing over a box of what clearly contained now obliterated glassware.
I fell for her the second I saw her.
What struck me first was her wild thick long hair that cascaded all way down to her lower middle back– a blend of wavy and curly tendrils, varying shades of strawberry blond with natural highlights, almost white in color, streaked throughout.
She was tall, maybe 5’7 or 5’8, and had a slender build from the waist up. My gaze trailed down and I liked how her hips and long legs were thicker and fuller with curves that could easily undo any man.
Her skin was sunkissed and her cheeks and the bridge of her nose were painted with an almost reddish hue, like she had spent the previous day in the sun and burned. Her lips were full and pouted, and her forehead and nose were crinkled, momentarily unnerved by the mess.
One of her slim but toned arms was bent at the elbow, her hand resting over that very sexy dip of a woman’s torso, between ribs and hip, while her other hand was tucking one of her wild blond curls back behind her ear.
She was looking down at the massacred dishes and glasses now strewn about the driveway, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the almost artful way she had cursed.
At the sound, she looked up. Pale green eyes, framed by thick, dark lashes, caught mine and sparkled in the sunlight.
Dear Lord, she was beautiful.
Breaking into a laugh herself, she kicked at the collapsed box and shrugged, admitting defeat in her battle to unload her truck. It was an absolute piece of shit on wheels. Oddly enough, it suited her perfectly.
She walked up to me and said ‘Hello Stranger’ with a hint of a New York accent, tilting her head upwards in greeting. ‘’I’m Maggie Curtis. Nice to meet ya.’’
The pitch of her voice wasn’t especially high or light in the typical sing song way most female voices were, but was throaty, with a bit of a rasp, as if she probably smoked too much; it was undeniably sultry in tone.
I imagined the things I wanted her to say to me in that voice, hands in my hair, writhing under me in sweat-soaked sheets.
I couldn’t fully enjoy that last thought because I felt my cock throb and begin to swell against my jeans. Now all focus was directed to will my erection away so that I wouldn’t come across as some sexual deviant when first meeting my client.
I introduced myself, turning slightly, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
‘Afternoon, Ma’am. I’m Zachariah Grant from Grant Construction and Repair. Do you need help with the boxes in your car?’
She looked at me and laughed, “Ma’am?! I think the fuck not! Not that old yet. And fuck the boxes for now but thank you for the offer.’
A hot blush flooded my neck and face. I stammered out an apology, coughing up a nervous laugh, but her smile told me I was safe. As she brushed past me onto the porch, she winked and placed a hand on my shoulder giving it a playful squeeze. “Just messing with you,” the gesture seemed to say, right before she vanished into the house.
I stood there, unraveled. A grown-ass, forty-seven-year-old man reduced to a clumsy, tongue-tied teenager. Totally smitten.
What happened to me? I never used to have an issue attracting women.
Sure, I’d broken my share of hearts once upon a time, but the thrill of the chase died out in my early thirties.
At six-foot-one with broad shoulders, daily manual labor made it easy to stay lean and muscular. Women used to flatter me, talking up my strong jaw, dark blue eyes, and dark thick, wavy hair.
I was actually looking to settle down until an accident on the job a decade ago tore my face open. Now, a massive scar ran from my brow down past my jawline. It wrecked my confidence. Once I realized I couldn’t stomach the pitying looks from women, I pulled back from the dating pool entirely.
I preferred the solitude anyway.
She came back out a moment later. “Zac? I have a fuckton of questions. Can you spare a few minutes in the house?”
Well, maybe not absolute solitude, I thought to myself wishing that my hard-on would dissipate.
