1
Hudson
I never thought I’d walk the downtown streets of Thickwood, Colorado, to see the curvy brunette that owns Jules’ Junk, let alone buy something from her shop, yet that’s where I am right now. I park my truck in the parking lot of Holt’s to pick up some supplies for the furniture I’m building. This new hobby I’ve taken up since leaving everything behind in New York is keeping me busy.
At the age of thirty-nine, I was done living a life full of business meetings, emails pinging non-stop, and phone calls. I needed a change, and I needed it fast. It took me a year to sell off the real estate that made me who I am—Hudson Walker, former owner of H&W Condominiums.
Starting out at the age of twenty-four and plugging away for fifteen years without a break in sight was enough for me to call it quits. My parents understood. Hell, my own father did the same thing with his shipping business shortly after my sister and I graduated high school. Now, both of them are on a two-month cruise and living their lives. The only thing that will have them planting roots again will be grandchildren.
My feet take me to Jules’ Junk. My truck is already loaded up with supplies to start on the dining room table I’m working on, but I can’t leave yet. Not until I see Jules. Her smile sets my world back on its axis. Her soft, golden blonde hair with shots of caramel through it is waist-length, and I’ve dreamed about it more times than I care to admit. Having it wrapped around my fist while she’s deep throating my cock, Jules on her hands and knees while I fuck her from behind, or even her riding me, her hair flowing down, neck arched with the ends of her hair hitting my thighs. I’ve often wondered what she looks like underneath her signature jeans and t-shirt. Is her tan deep, or is she just sun-kissed? Her breasts, which I know are more than a handful, even for my large hands, and that ass of hers capture my thoughts every time I see her. She doesn’t even know that, when she walks away, there’s a sway to her hips that has me begging for relief.
“Fuck,” I grunt out loud, trying to get my cock to stand down as I get closer to her shop.
Her window is fully decorated with this week’s display. It seems it’s more of a metal works with hints of wood. The combination should look cluttered and overcrowded, yet it’s not. The mix of new and old works well together.
I open the door, listening to the bells ring that let Jules know someone is here. The noise that I hear once the door closes has me shaking my head. How anyone could love eighties hair band music along with the ballads that come with them, I’ll never know. Somehow, Jules’ does, though. It almost sets my teeth on edge. Today, she has Skid Row humming through the speakers, and I can hear her singing out of tune, “I Remember You,” even though she’s farther inside the store, with her back turned to me. Right beside her is Beau, her French bulldog. He doesn’t even lift his head up from the ground, completely content with her. And, boy, do I get it. If I had Jules as my own, I’d never let her leave my sight. I get the full effect of her sweet body encased in the tight denim she’s wearing.
“Just a minute,” she says without looking over her shoulder to see who walked in. This woman. Doesn’t she know, even in a small town, things can happen?
“Take your time, Jules,” I tell her as I walk around the front of the shop, trying to keep my eyes off her heart-shaped ass and not look like a damn creeper.
“Oh, hey. Give me just a few seconds. I’ll be right over,” she says over her shoulder when she realizes it’s me, a soft smile playing on her face.
“I have nothing but time, beautiful.” Her smile gets wider then she returns to what she was doing as I continue looking around her shop at the new things she’s brought in this week.
2
Jules
Hudson is here. I’m a disheveled mess, there’s paint on my shirt—hell, probably on my face, too—and my hair is haphazardly in a knot at the nape of my neck. I was in the middle of painting a sign when my thick long hair got in the way. I really should go visit Cora at Hair to Eternity. The way my week is going, it won’t be happening, though. I blow a puff of air out, trying to get the tendrils of hair that are falling down out of my way as I finish boxing up a package that a customer asked me to ship.