3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Tank
I don’t make a habit of coming into town unless I have a damn good reason. Most days, my cabin up in the hills is all I need. Peace, quiet, and no one poking their nose in my business.
But today, a letter from the town clerk showed up in my mailbox, full of bureaucratic nonsense about some zoning ordinance that, according to the bolded legal jargon, “requires immediate attention.” I debated ignoring it—hell, I almost tossed it straight into the woodstove—but against my better judgment, I decided to handle it in person.
Now, stepping through the double doors of Hawks Roost Town Hall, I realize I’ve walked into something much bigger than a paperwork headache.
The place is packed, standing room only. People are jostling for space, craning their necks toward a makeshift stage at the front. A massive banner stretches across the room:
HAWKS ROOST BACHELOR AND BACHELORETTE CHARITY AUCTION.
I exhale sharply, already half-tempted to turn on my heel and walk right back out.
I don’t do social events. I don’t do crowds.
Then, I see her.
Lucy Caldwell stands near the stage, and suddenly, nothing else in the damn world matters.
She owns The Wildflower Apothecary, the little shop tucked between the bakery and the hardware store. And fuck me, she has no business looking like that.
She’s wearing a black dress that hugs every curve just right, the fabric clinging in places I have no business staring at. Her auburn hair is swept to one side, exposing the graceful line of her neck, and I swear, for a second, I forget how to breathe.
It’s not the first time I’ve been caught up in her orbit. On the rare occasions I come into town, I always find myself in her shop, picking up that muscle salve she makes—though I’d never admit how damn well it works. The truth is, even if the stuff didn’t ease the ache in my shoulders, I’d still buy it by the gallon, just for the excuse to see her.
If only she were part of the charity auction. I’d plunk down every last penny I have to win her.
I watch as Pete Callahan, a man nearly as reclusive as me, throws down a bid on the town librarian. He practically growls when another man dares to challenge him. I let out a dry chuckle, shaking my head. Who’d have guessed the mountain man was into bookworms?
Lucy steps onto the stage briefly, checking on her friend before disappearing backstage with her. That’s my cue. No need to stick around if Lucy’s left.
I turn toward the exit, but just as I start pushing my way through the crowd, a commotion from the stage makes me pause.
One of the contestants, a young woman in a glittery dress, collapses.
The entire Hawks Roost EMT department happens to be in the audience. They jump to their feet, effectively blocking my way out as they rush to her aid.
Looks like I’m stuck here a while longer.
Murmurs ripple through the room as the woman is loaded onto a stretcher and wheeled out the door.
“What happened?”“She had a panic attack.”“I hope she’s okay.”
The event organizer taps the microphone, bringing the chatter to a halt. “Attention, everyone! Ms. Abernathy is fine, just heading to the hospital for observation. That said, we do still have an open slot in the auction.” She pauses for dramatic effect before smiling. “Luckily, we have a willing replacement. Lucy Caldwell, owner of The Wildflower Apothecary, will be taking her place!”
My entire body goes still.
Lucy steps back onto the stage, lips parted in laughter as the crowd erupts into cheers.
“The charity she’s representing is The Brassiere Initiative, which provides low-income women and girls with new bras,” the organizer continues. “It’s important work, folks, so be generous!”
The auctioneer wastes no time. “Let’s start the bidding at fifty dollars!”
Lucy has always seemed out of reach. Too bold. Too alive. Too damn young. But right now, she’s standing under the stage lights, waiting for someone to put down money for a date with her.
And I’ll be damned if that someone is anyone but me.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, my paint-stained fingertips flexing instinctively. No one in town knows what I do up in my cabin—that I’m the same artist whose work sells for thousands in far-off galleries. I prefer it that way.
But looking at Lucy now, a thought hits me square in the chest.
She belongs on canvas.
Not just a portrait. No, something deeper. Something raw. I can already see it—layers of paint and earth, wildflowers pressed into the brushstrokes, the essence of her captured in a way no photograph could ever touch.
The idea sinks its teeth into me, and hell if I know how to shake it loose.
A couple of eager voices call out bids, but they barely register. My boots move of their own accord, cutting through the crowd until I get a clear view of the stage.
Lucy’s gaze locks onto mine just as I raise my hand.
“Five hundred,” I rumble.
A ripple moves through the crowd. A few heads turn, but I don’t waver.
Lucy’s lips part slightly, her eyes widening. There’s surprise there, but also something else. Something unreadable. Something that sends a shot of adrenaline straight through me.
Another bid comes in. Doesn’t matter.
I lift my hand again. “One thousand.”
The murmurs grow louder. Another bid.
I step forward, jaw set. “Five thousand dollars.”
The room goes dead silent.
On stage, Lucy is staring at me, her chest rising and falling with each measured breath. I can’t tell if she’s about to laugh, protest, or come down here and slap me.
Doesn’t matter.
I won’t let anyone else win her tonight. She’s mine .