1
Thea
My wet palmsgrip the steering wheel. The weather isn’t letting up anytime soon. It’s starting to look like a snow globe outside. Thank God I left when I did. If I didn’t need to nail this interview and photo session with Dorian Strong, I swear I would’ve stayed home. I went to school for journalism with a minor in photography. I thought I’d be living a more prestigious life by now, not taking pictures of some local billionaire for being…well, a billionaire.
I scoff and blast the defroster. The temperature’s not that cold, especially for the mountains, but the snow is unrelenting. If only I knew where the hell I was going.
My teeth gnash into my bottom lip as I make the curve I think takes me to my subject’s house. Dorian Strong, billionaire philanthropist extraordinaire. Can you even believe that? So the man has tons of money and donates some of it. Big whoop!
My tires skid against a slick patch. I inhale sharply, right the car, and keep on driving. I’ve made it this far. I want to wrap this assignment up and get the hell out of here. Dorian Strong is the last on my list of local do-gooders. With lackluster results from the other pompous, non-photogenic rich men in this town, I’m hoping he’s at least somewhat decent. Money around here seems to breed hubris.
I double check the address, unable to believe that a billionaire lives here. The small log cabin is quaint, lackluster, and not at all what I expected. In fact, it looks like the kind of place you’d hide out in where no one would find you. Off the grid, they say. “Great.” I scoff, and turn my car off.
I give myself one more glance in the rearview mirror, checking for raccoon eyes or flyaway hair. Everything’s in place except one thing. I pull my favorite red tinted gloss from my camera bag and swipe it across my lips.
Wet snow sticks to the ends of my dark hair as I make my way up to the front door. I should’ve worn better shoes, but I didn’t have time to check the weather. As I tiptoe up the steps, a wave of nervousness washes over me that I can’t quite explain. I’ve done personal at-home shoots a hundred times, but something feels different about this.
I knock on the front door and take a step backward, waiting for someone to answer. A sudden gust of cold wind has me gripping my coat around my neck. So much for mild temperatures. It feels like a cold front may be on the horizon.
I knock again, louder, more impatient. “Come on.” I whisper, shifting my weight from side to side before peering in the window. Darkness greets me, no one inside. “Well, shit.” I dig my cell phone out from my pocket, ready to call the contact number on the sheet my producer gave me when I hear it.
Thwack!
My ears perk up. Without thinking, my feet move back down the stairs and in the direction of the sound.Thwack!I make my way around the house, staying on the cement path, rapidly turning from concrete gray to white.
The noise is a good sign. It means someone’s home at the very least. It sucks to have to reschedule. Dorian Strong’s schedule was already hell to work around. It’s almost like he didn’t want anyone out here.
Thwack!
I turn the corner of the modest cabin and what I see nearly drops me to my knees. A man—ahot as hellwoodsman—with his ax high in the air. My throat closes at the sight of him. Even though it looks like he’s trapped in a snow globe, he’s wearing nothing but a pair of destroyed denim and a plain white t-shirt that sticks to his bulky chest. His corded arms pop and flex as he brings down the ax.
Thwack!
My center twitches watching him. A familiar pulse between my legs has me twisting my hips for a little traction. I’m so caught up in the moment, that it almost escapes my mind.
That’s my shot!
I pull my camera from my bag and wrap the strap around my neck, careful to remain just out of his sight. Each time he raises the ax, showing a sliver of his toned stomach, my shutter maniacally clicks. A tiny groan escapes my mouth. I pull back and review my shots on the viewfinder. It’s my lucky day; The camera loves him.
The gigantic mountain man stops to wipe his brow. His rugged beard gives him a wild look, the kind of man who’d tie you up and have his way with you. I lick my lips, wondering what the hell’s gotten into me.
I’d likehimto get into me.
“Hello?” I gasp, bringing my gaze up to where he’s standing. “Who the hell are you?”
I swallow, smiling, unable to find any words that make sense in this moment. The dark haired giant grabs his buffalo plaid flannel from the nearby tree, shoving his oversized arms into the sleeves as he makes his way toward me.
The closer he gets the more mesmerized I am by his eyes. Every single color imaginable sparkles back at me, an intoxicating mix of hazel, brown, gold, and blue.
I throw my hand out, letting my camera bounce against my breasts. “Thea Harmon.” In this moment, I realize how wet my hair’s become. So much for beach waves today. “I’m here to take your photo for the calendar.”
His thick, dark brow furrows. “Interview?”
“Yeah,” I say, aware of how hot my body temperature is growing despite the icy breeze. “My editor set this up a week ago.”
“Oh.” He shuffles the ax from one hand to the other. The simple gesture makes me realize how far away I am from town. How little I know about this guy, this Dorian Strong. A sickening thought crosses my mind. I narrow my eyes at the hulking giant.
“What’s your name?” I ask.