 by Margot Scott.jpg)
Total pages in book: 20
Estimated words: 19169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 96(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 96(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
I know three things to be true: Pabst isn’t real beer, the Sox always lose, and wherever I am, I’m always the biggest guy in the room. People don’t just gawk when they see me coming. They keep their distance, which is fine by me. Why do you think I bought a fixer-upper in the country? Not for the creature comforts, that’s for sure.
But I don’t mind the manual labor, just like I don’t mind the solitude. I’ve got my own business and my DIY projects, and no room for anything—or anyone—else.
That is, until April Meyer shows up on my doorstep, all mouthwatering curves and anxious smiles, clutching a month-old advert touting a room for rent in my new house.
A girl her age doesn’t move to the middle of nowhere without good reason. I’ve made it my mission to unearth April’s reasons, but the more I learn, the more I need to learn. Soon, I’m not just coveting her desires. I’m bringing them to life.
April
I knew the ad was a long shot, and I wasn’t prepared for a giant to answer the door. Gazing up at Jonathan, I feel small for the first time in my life, like I could curl up in his lap, safe and warm.
Not that he’d let me. I fully expect him to send me packing, but he lets me rent a room. It's not my first choice to move to the country, but my stepmom threw me out when she discovered how I’ve been saving for college: working as a BBW cam girl, under the username UntouchedLibrarian, reading dirty books to strangers in my bra.
As soon as I’m back online, I meet a new customer, one who buys up all my private sessions for the month. Something about this mystery man feels familiar, yet different from the other men I’ve talked to. He doesn’t pressure me to take my clothes off. He just wants me to tell him my dirtiest fantasies, things I’ve never told anyone, about wanting to be cherished and sheltered by a man I call Daddy, who makes me feel like a pearl in his palm.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
one
Jonathan
The hairs on my nape stand at attention as I ease the electrical wires through the hole I’ve cut into the drywall. Someone’s watching me. I sense the weight of their gaze on my back as I reach into my toolbox for a boxcutter.
“Are you a giant, mister?” says a small voice.
I spy the pint-sized owner of the voice, peering through the doorway to what I assume will be her mother’s walk-in closet after I’m done installing outlets and light switches. The child stares at me with nervous fascination, clutching a bright-orange plush pony. Even kneeling on the carpet, I’m almost twice her height.
“Only half giant,” I say with a wink.
The girl’s mother, a blonde woman with thick-rimmed glasses, appears at her daughter’s side. “There you are.” She smiles apologetically. “Sweetie, don’t bother the nice man.”
“It’s no bother, ma’am.” I note the way she eases her child behind her as I rise to my full height. At a whopping six-foot-eight, I’m willing to bet I’m the tallest man she’s ever found in her closet. Bigger, too, now that my metabolism’s slowed down after forty-five. I don’t work out as often as I used to when I was young, but surprisingly I haven’t lost any muscle. I’ve just cushioned my muscles beneath a layer of too much take-out.
Mother and daughter are already out of sight when the woman says, “We’ll let you get back to work.”
If I wasn’t already used to people’s reactions to my stature, I might be insulted. As it stands, I’ll take not-so-subtle distancing over bad jokes and inane questions. I return my attention to the electrical wire, removing the outer sheathing to expose the smaller cables inside. I attach the cables, install the outlet, and screw the whole thing into place. The wall plates won’t go on until after the wall’s been painted, but that’s a job for the next guy; I’m just the electrician.
I pack up my tools and head downstairs where the head contractor, Austin, and his guys are hard at work renovating the kitchen.
“Upstairs closet and bath are all wired,” I tell him.
“Perfect timing.” Austin’s a big motherfucker in his own right, but I’ve still got a good four inches and forty pounds on his linebacker frame. “And, Jonathan, thanks again for taking this one on such short notice. I can’t fuckin’ stand working with wild cards.”
“I appreciate the rec.” I don’t work for the construction firm Austin co-owns with his friend and business partner, Jonah. I was hired by the homeowner directly at Austin’s behest, because he knows I do quality, efficient work, and I clean up after myself. “I’ll be back tomorrow to finish up in here.”
“Sounds good, man.”
I slip out the back door and climb into my truck, grateful to be heading home while it’s light out. With the sun setting so damn early this time of year, most days I start and end work in the dark. I pick up a burger and fries for dinner, grateful for the advent of drive-thru takeout. It’s not that I hate all people. I just get tired of their wide-eyed stares and the jokes about joining the NBA or the weather up there.
My burger and fries are long gone by the time my tires hit the driveway. That’s the thing about living in the country: it takes a while to go anywhere and back. I spot the orange tabby cat curled up on my front porch. He’s been hanging around the property since I moved in. I have no clue what his name is, where he lives, if he used to belong to the previous owner, or if he’s a stray.
The cat stretches and yawns as I get out of my truck and set my toolbox on the steps.
“How ya doing, bud?” I scratch the side of his face and behind his right ear. He purrs loudly.
I didn’t used to feel one way or another about cats, but something about this little guy tugged at my sympathies. Maybe because it took a few days for him to warm up to me, like he was used to being on his own. Independent, solitary.
“You hungry?” I ask. He chirrups and jumps off the porch, weaving between my legs. I follow him into the barn where I keep a folded blanket and bowls of dry food and water beneath a heat lamp set to low.
I pour some kibble into his bowl and top off his water dish with what’s left in my bottle.
“It’s supposed to drop below freezing tonight. Stick close to the heat lamp.” So far, the cat has yet to accept my invitation to enter the house, even on the coldest of nights.
I leave the tabby to his dinner and stride into the house, kicking my boots off in the mudroom. While washing the grease from my dinner off my hands in the farmhouse-style sink, it hits me how much I’ve already gotten used to coming home to this kitchen.