Bachelor #5: The Protective Mountain Man (The Lovesbury Valentine’s Day Auction)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Tilly

I push through the crowd filling the bachelor auction in Heartstone Square’s indoor pavilion. The air is thick with perfume and the sugar-fat smell of waffles from the Waffle Den next door. I unbutton my coat and claim a spot against the back wall.

My hands ache, fingers stiff from three days of hauling furniture and scrubbing floors. My lower back throbs with a knot I haven’t had time to stretch out, and when I roll my shoulders, something pops. Not enough sleep. Not enough help. Not enough hours left before the opening I can’t postpone.

My spot has clear sightlines to the small stage at the front. The Matchmakers’ Brigade of older women claims the front row with their pink lipstick and wine thermoses, already providing commentary.

Evelyn Hartwood’s voice cuts through the noise, amplified and bright.

As the mayor’s wife, she stands at the microphone in pearls and a smile sharp enough to sell anything to anyone.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and anyone else with a pulse and a credit card, welcome to Lovesbury’s first annual Valentine’s Bachelor Auction! ”

The auction erupts. Whistles, applause, a shouted comment filthy enough to make the cluster of veterans near the door collapse into laughter.

Evelyn beams. “All proceeds go to the veterans’ center, so bid generously. And who knows? Maybe you’ll find more than a weekend.”

I focus on the reason I’m here. The armoire. The shop layout that only works if I can move that piece to the east wall. I need help. That’s all. I’ll bid, win, clarify expectations, and handle this like the competent adult I’m supposed to be.

The first bachelor looks to be former military with a short scruff and a well-fitting flannel. A young, curvy brunette wins the bid, and Evelyn declares it a love connection immediately.

Minutes pass. More bachelors. More bids.

“And now,” Evelyn says, her voice dropping into the register of movie trailers and dark prophecy, “we have a very special addition to tonight’s lineup.”

The crowd goes still.

“He wasn’t on the calendar. He didn’t pose with puppies. But he’s here, and ladies, you’re going to want to pay attention.”

A man steps onto the stage, and every sound in the audience drops away.

He’s built like he was carved from the mountain itself.

Shoulders broad enough to fill the narrow stage, height that makes the ceiling feel low, presence that takes up space without apology.

His jaw carries scruff too deliberate to be accidental, and his eyes are dark, steady, scanning the crowd with the focus of someone looking for a specific target.

He wears a canvas work coat worn soft at the elbows, boots that have seen mud and weather, and a calm so absolute it reads like a challenge.

His hands stay in his pockets. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t perform. He just stands there, and the entire crowd holds its breath.

Heat floods my chest and spreads down my arms. My heart kicks hard against my ribs, a physical thump I feel in my throat. My body responds faster than thought can follow, and the crowd’s warmth feels suffocating. My pulse is loud in my ears, my skin too tight.

“This is Davin,” Evelyn announces. “He’s a man of few words, so I’ll keep this short. He builds furniture. He knows his way around a mountain. And if you’re smart, you’ll bid high and bid fast.”

Davin’s gaze moves across the crowd in a slow sweep. It lands on me, and my lungs seize.

The moment stretches. His eyes are brown, deep enough to drown in, and they don’t waver. They don’t assess. They recognize. My breath stalls somewhere between my chest and my throat, and the noise fades to a distant hum.

Then his gaze moves on, and I’m left pressing myself against the wall behind me like it’s the only thing holding me up.

“Bidding starts at one hundred dollars,” Evelyn calls.

A woman I know from town named Claire shoots her hand up. “Two hundred.”

Watching her bid, imagining her parading past my shop window with her prize, makes something hot and sharp twist in my stomach. My jaw tightens, molars pressing together.

I raise my hand. “Two fifty.” I can do this, and I even have a little wiggle room.

Claire’s eyes narrow. “Three hundred.”

My stomach drops, but my hand goes up again. “Three fifty.”

Davin’s gaze locks on me. This time, it doesn’t move.

The weight of his attention roots me in place. There’s something in his expression that feels like he’s been waiting, like he already knew I’d be here, like this moment was decided long before I walked into the auction.

“Four hundred,” Claire says. My shoulders sink. This is outside my budget, but I can dig into savings.

I open my mouth to counter, but Davin moves first. He steps forward to the edge of the stage, his boots heavy on the wood. His voice carries low and rough across the space. “That’s enough.”

Evelyn blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“I said that’s enough.” He nods toward me. “I’m taking her bid.”

The crowd goes silent. Not the held-breath quiet from before. The shocked kind, the kind that comes when the rules change mid-game, and no one saw it coming.

Claire’s mouth falls open. “But I bid higher.”

Davin doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay locked on mine, dark and certain. “Doesn’t matter.”

The warm air feels too thick in my lungs.

My fingers tremble against the wall, but the rush of heat flooding my face drowns out everything else.

The crowd has disappeared. The noise is gone.

All that exists is the man walking toward me and the way my body has started to unclench, muscle by muscle, like it’s been waiting for permission to let go.

He steps off the stage and crosses the room.

People move out of his way without being asked.

He stops three feet away. Up close, he’s enormous.

Not just tall but solid, the kind of presence that makes the air feel heavier.

I crane my neck to look up at him. The angle makes me acutely aware of how much space he occupies, how small I feel in comparison, how that should be frightening but isn’t.

“You need help with something,” he says. It’s not a question.

I nod because words won’t come.

“Then let’s go.”

The words unstick. “Wait. I need to explain. This isn’t—I’m not here for the weekend thing. I just need help moving furniture. That’s it. I can pay you for your time, and then we’re done.”

“We’ll talk about it,” he says, and his tone makes it clear the conversation is over for now.

Evelyn’s assistant materializes beside us, clipboard and mobile credit card reader in hand. I dig my card out of my bag and fumble with the reader until it dings. “Congratulations, you two,” she says, smiling.

I start to correct her, but Davin’s hand settles on the small of my back, and the words evaporate. The touch is light, barely any pressure, but it burns through my coat and sweater like a brand. My knees soften, and I lock them to stay upright.

“Storm’s coming,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “We need to move.”

Through the glass double doors at the far end, I can see the sky. Thick clouds move fast, dark and heavy with snow that’s already started to fall.

“My car—”

“Won’t make it up the mountain in the coming storm. You’ll ride with me.”

“I don’t even know you.”

His hand doesn’t move from my back. His gaze doesn’t shift. “You know enough.”

And the terrifying part is that some deep, exhausted part of me agrees.

My shoulders drop. The tension I’ve been carrying for months loosens its grip on my spine, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the idea of not holding everything alone doesn’t feel like failure. It feels like relief.

“Okay,” I say.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes softens. He nods once, then turns and starts walking. I follow because my body has already decided. The crowd parts around us, and behind me, Evelyn’s voice rises in triumph. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done!”

We step out of the auction into the cold, and the temperature drop hits like a wall.

The air chills my hands and face, sharp after the stifling warmth inside.

Snow falls steadily now, fat flakes that catch in my hair and melt on my cheeks.

I pull my coat closed and button it with fumbling fingers.

Davin’s hand stays at my back, guiding me across the square toward the parking area, his body blocking the worst of the wind.

His truck sits at the edge of the lot, a dark blue extended cab with chains already wrapped around the tires. He opens the passenger door, and I climb in. The cab smells like pine sap and worn leather. The passenger seat is cracked but spotless, and a thermos sits in the cup holder.

He slides into the driver’s seat, and the engine starts with a low rumble that vibrates through the seat and into my bones. The heater kicks on immediately. After a moment, warm air pours from the vents.

He pulls out, and we’re moving over the road like he owns the snow. The town fades behind us as we climb into the mountains. Snow falls harder now, coating the windshield before the wipers sweep it away in steady arcs.

I should fill the silence. Explain again that this is temporary, transactional. But what comes out instead is, “I really do just need furniture moved.”

“I know.” His hands stay steady on the wheel, relaxed and capable.

“I open in two weeks. The armoire is blocking the entire back wall. That’s all this is.”

“Okay.”

The simplicity of his response unsettles me more than an argument would. I shift in my seat. “I can pay you. For your time.”

“We’ll figure it out.” His voice is calm, unhurried, like we have all the time in the world instead of being trapped in a truck driving into a storm.

“I heard that you entered the auction late,” I say.

“I did.”

“Why?”

His jaw tightens slightly. “Heard you were going to be there.”

My stomach flips. “How did you—”

“Small town. You were talking to Mika Landry at the bookstore about needing help. She mentioned you might bid.” He glances at me briefly before his eyes return to the road. “Figured I’d make it easy for you.”

Heat crawls up my neck despite the cold outside. “By shutting down the auction?”

“By making sure you got what you needed.”

The certainty in his voice makes my chest tight and warm and aching. I press my palms against my thighs, grounding myself in the denim beneath my hands. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

The wipers beat a steady rhythm. The heater hums. My body starts to unwind in increments, tension bleeding from my shoulders, my neck, the base of my spine. The warmth seeps into my muscles, and the exhaustion I’ve been holding at bay starts to press against the edges of my awareness.

“The armoire I need moved—it’s oak. Probably 1920s. Weighs more than I do.”

“How much more?”

“Enough that I almost threw my back out trying to shift it three inches.”

His hands tighten on the wheel, just barely, but I catch it. The knuckles go white for a second before he forces them to relax. “You shouldn’t have been moving it alone.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You do now.”

The simple, absolute words settle between us. The easy way he’s claimed responsibility for something that isn’t his problem makes my throat feel tight. I turn my face toward the window.

The road curves upward, the grade steepening. The truck handles it without hesitation, chains biting into the snow-packed asphalt with a rhythmic crunch that’s oddly soothing.

“Storm’s going to get worse before it gets better,” Davin says. “Roads’ll be closed by morning.”

My pulse kicks. “For how long?”

“Day, maybe two.”

“I need to be back for—”

“We’ll get you back when it’s safe.” His tone doesn’t leave room for negotiation, but it’s not controlling. It’s protective, and my body knows the difference.

The truck slows, and Davin turns onto a narrower road cut through the trees, barely more than a driveway. The headlights illuminate a cabin ahead, wood-sided and solid, smoke curling from the chimney into the dark sky.

He parks close to the front door and kills the engine. The sudden silence is profound, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and the soft whisper of snow against the windshield. The world outside the truck feels muffled, distant, like we’ve crossed into a place where normal rules don’t apply.

He opens his door, and cold air rushes in, sharp and immediate. He’s around to my side before I can reach for the handle. He opens my door and offers his hand, palm up, waiting.

I take it. His palm is warm, callused, steady.

He helps me down, and when my boots hit the snow-covered ground, he doesn’t let go right away.

His hand stays around mine, solid and grounding.

For a moment, we’re motionless. The flakes catch in his dark hair and on his shoulders, melting where they touch his skin.

The intensity in his gaze makes my pulse kick, and I realize he’s studying me: not assessing, not judging, but memorizing.

Like he’s been waiting for this moment and wants to be sure it’s real.

His thumb brushes across my knuckles once, a touch so light it could be accidental but isn’t. Then he releases me and reaches into the truck bed for a bag I didn’t notice. “Let’s get you inside.”

I follow him to the cabin door, and when he opens it, warmth and the smell of woodsmoke pour out. The interior glows with firelight. The cabin has wood floors, a stone fireplace with embers still orange and alive, and furniture that looks handmade and well-loved.

It looks like a home. It looks like safety.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I allow myself to believe that stopping, resting, letting go… maybe I’m allowed to do these things without everything falling apart.