Centuria Books · Sugar & Sawdust
Sugar & Sawdust — Read the First Chapter
A mountain of a contractor decides the exhausted baker fixing her own condemned bakery never has to carry the weight alone again — she just has to let him.
Check Engine Light
The cold in the inherited bakery didn’t just bite; it gnawed right through my thin sweater and settled deep into my bones. I stared up at the water stain spreading across the sagging ceiling like a dark, mocking bruise. Please don’t cave in. I gripped the edges of the flour-dusted countertop until my knuckles turned white. My entire life—every dime I’d scraped together, every bridge I’d burned in the city—was tied up in this crumbling mountain-town ruin. I was supposed to be a pastry chef, not a miracle worker.
I wanted to fill this space with the scent of browned butter, warm vanilla, and caramelized sugar. I desperately wanted to prove I could build something beautiful all on my own, just like I always had. But the crushing weight of the groaning pipes, the shattered front door, and the impossible mountain of labor was choking me.
What if I couldn’t carry it this time? For the first time in my fiercely independent life, a terrifying thought crept in: I can’t do this alone. I squeezed my eyes shut against the prickle of exhausted tears. I just needed one break. One sign that I wasn’t going to drown under the debris.
The contractor I hired over the phone back in Seattle took my entire deposit and completely vanished. My bank account currently held exactly three hundred and forty dollars. The grand opening was scheduled in one month. Right now, I didn’t even have a functioning toilet.
Wind howled through the broken front window, scattering dead mountain-pine needles across the warped hardwood. The air smelled of wet rot and decades of neglect. This place was called Sugar and Sawdust in my head. Right now, it was just sawdust. And ice. The commercial ovens I ordered were scheduled to arrive soon. If I didn’t have the structural integrity of this place secured by then, the delivery men would leave them in the snowdrifts out front.
I grabbed my metal scraper from my canvas tool bag. I attacked the ancient, sticky grime coating the display case glass. My breathing came in short, white plumes of frost. Every scrape of the metal echoed in the vast, empty room. My shoulders burned. I wiped the glass down with a freezing rag. It looked worse than when I started.
Then, a sound cut through the noise of the mountain wind.
High. Thin. Desperate.
A frantic wailing from beneath the floor.
I dropped the scraper. It clattered loudly against the tile. I moved toward the front window, stepping over piles of shattered glass and debris. The floorboards here dipped dangerously. The wood was black with old water damage.
A tiny paw scratched against the underside of the oak planks.
“Hey.” I knelt on the cracked boards. “Are you stuck?”
Another miserable, freezing mewl answered me. A stray kitten. Trapped in the crawlspace, right where the icy draft funneled through the cracked stone foundation. The temperature was dropping fast. The sun dipped lower behind the jagged peaks outside. If that animal stayed down there tonight, it would freeze solid.
I fell fully to my knees. The impact sent a sharp shock of pain up my shins. I jammed my bare fingers into the tight crack between the two most rotted boards. The wood was swollen with moisture and frozen tight.
I pulled upward. My muscles strained. The board refused to budge.
The kitten cried louder, a ragged, terrified screech that twisted my gut into tight knots.
“I’m getting you out.” I pressed my face close to the floor. “Just hold on.”
I wedged my fingers deeper. The rough, splintered edge of the old oak bit deeply into my skin. I dug my heels into the floor and threw my entire body weight backward. The wood gave a sick crack. Sharp splinters sliced straight through my cuticles. Hot blood welled up instantly, slipping down my palms and staining the dark wood. I ignored the stinging pain. I yanked again. The board lifted a quarter of an inch, then jammed completely against a rusted nail.
I let out a harsh cry, my chest heaving. The mountain cold ripped away my strength. I dug my bloody nails into the gap one more time, preparing to tear the wood apart with pure adrenaline.
Then came the heavy crunch of boots on the snow-dusted porch.
The shattered front door groaned backward on rusted hinges. Bootsteps, heavy and deliberate, thudded against the hardwood. The sound was not frantic. It was the slow, measured pace of a man who owned the ground he walked on. A massive shadow stretched across the dusty floor, completely swallowing the weak afternoon light.
I scrambled to look over my shoulder, my bleeding hands still wedged in the floorboards.
The man taking up the entire doorway was a mountain. He wore a heavy, faded flannel shirt that stretched dangerously tight across a chest completely devoid of softness. Broad, impossible shoulders tapered down into a thick waist. The sleeves of his flannel were shoved up past his elbows, revealing thick, ropey forearms corded with heavy muscle and dusted with dark hair. Dirt, grease, and sawdust deeply stained the heavy, dark denim hugging his thick thighs.
My mouth went completely dry. A hot, heavy flush washed over my skin, completely chasing away the freezing air. He wore a thick leather toolbelt slung low over his hips, drawing my gaze directly to the heavy steel hammer resting against his thigh. The leather loops hugged the sharp V of his pelvis. Every inch of him vibrated with raw, unadulterated strength. His hands hung at his sides. They were huge. Thick fingers, heavily calloused palms, knuckles dusted with pale silver scars from years of brutal physical labor. His jaw was square and covered in dark, rough stubble. His dark hair was thick and messy, dusting the heavy canvas collar of his jacket. He was terrifying. He was the most intensely attractive man I had ever seen.
He marched across the room. He didn’t ask what I was doing. He didn’t introduce himself.
He stopped right in front of me. His massive, steel-toed boots planted firmly on either side of the broken floorboard. I had to crane my neck aggressively just to see his face.
“Move.” The single word rolled out of his chest, deep and rough, vibrating straight through the floor and into my bones.
I scrambled backward, entirely overwhelmed by his proximity. I hit the edge of the display counter and stayed there.
He dropped into a crouch. The thick denim tightened over the massive muscles of his thighs. He didn’t look at me. He looked perfectly at the cracked floorboard. He reached down with his huge, scarred hands. He wrapped his thick fingers around the splintered oak where I had just been bleeding.
He didn’t strain. He didn’t brace himself.
His broad shoulders rolled backward exactly once. The thick muscles of his back flexed beneath the heavy flannel.
Crack.
The stubborn, inch-thick oak board snapped clean in half like a dry twig. He tossed the ruined wood over his shoulder. It hit the wall with a loud thud.
He reached his massive hand down into the dark, freezing gap.
A second later, he pulled his hand back. A tiny, shivering ball of orange fur rested in his massive palm. The stray kitten was so small it didn’t even cover his fingers. It wailed, a pathetic, high-pitched screech.
The giant’s face instantly shifted. The harsh, severe lines of his jaw completely softened. He pulled the tiny animal directly to his broad chest. He unzipped the top of his heavy canvas jacket and tucked the kitten inside, right against his warm flannel shirt.
His huge, grease-stained thumb reached down. He stroked the top of the tiny kitten’s head. The contrast was staggering—this brutal, scarred hand moving with impossible, fluid gentleness. He rubbed the soft spot behind the kitten’s ears. The wailing stopped immediately. The kitten let out a tiny purr, burrowing its freezing nose into the heat of his massive chest.
My throat tightened. I stared at him, completely captivated. He had destroyed the obstacle in a single second, entirely to offer comfort to a helpless creature.
Then, he zipped his jacket halfway to secure the kitten. He stood up to his full, towering height.
The tender caretaker vanished instantly.
His demeanor flipped with terrifying speed. He turned his fierce, harsh focus directly onto me. A dark scowl carved deep lines into his face. A muscle feathered in his sharp jaw. His dark stare pinned me in place.
“What the hell are you doing?” His voice cracked like a whip in the empty room.
I flinched back. “I was getting the kitten—”
“Step back from the load-bearing wall before you get hurt. Now.”
He pointed a thick, heavily scarred finger at the sagging archway directly above where I had just been kneeling. The cracked plaster groaned audibly under the heavy weight of the roof snow.
I pressed my spine harder against the display case. “I wasn’t going to let it freeze.”
“You were going to pry up a structural floorboard with your bare hands directly beneath a failing header beam?” He closed the distance between us in two long, predatory strides. He stopped exactly six inches away. The absolute width of his chest completely blocked the faint light from the window. The scent of fresh sawdust, cold snow, and clean, masculine sweat rolled off him in a dizzying wave.
He reached out. Before I could pull away, his massive fingers wrapped around my wrists. The heat radiating off his skin burned straight through my freezing limbs. He lifted my hands, inspecting my torn cuticles and bleeding palms. His grip was an immovable vice. Not painful, but completely inescapable.
His jaw clenched tighter. The muscle jumped again beneath his skin. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just a splinter.” I tried to pull my hands back.
He didn’t let go. His rough thumbs brushed over my torn skin, a calloused, rasping friction that sent a hot jolt straight up my arms. Gooseflesh rose rapidly over my skin. “You don’t know the first thing about this building. The foundation is compromised. The plumbing froze solid three days ago. That header beam is three degrees away from collapsing and crushing you flat.”
“I inherited this place.” I shoved my chin up, refusing to look away from his dark, harsh glare. I wouldn’t let this massive stranger intimidate me out of my own bakery. “It belongs to me.”
“Right now, it’s a death trap.” He dropped my hands. He hooked his scarred thumbs into the thick leather of his toolbelt. “Pack your bags. Get in your car. You’re leaving.”
“Excuse me?” The air rushed out of me. My chest heaved. “You can’t walk in here and tell me to leave my own property.”
“I’m the contractor the city called to condemn this structure tomorrow morning.” He stood exactly over me, his broad shoulders casting a long, dark shadow. “I’m telling you to leave before you get killed.”
“No.”
The single word hung in the freezing air between us.
He stared at me. He didn’t yell. He didn’t argue. He simply stood there, an immovable mountain of muscle and denim, entirely unaccustomed to being challenged by anyone, let alone a woman half his size.
“I’m not leaving,” I repeated. My voice shook, but I forced my spine straight. I wiped my bleeding hands on the thighs of my jeans. “I’m going to fix it. I’m going to open a pastry shop.”
He tracked the movement of my hands. He looked deliberately around the room. He cataloged the shattered displays. The leaking ceiling. The frozen pipes. The damp rot creeping up the walls.
“You’re going to fix it.” A dark amusement lit his harsh face, entirely devoid of humor. “You weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet and you can’t even pull a single rotted floorboard.”
“I’ll figure it out.” My pulse thrashed wildly against my throat.
“You stay in this building tonight, you freeze to death.” He crossed his massive arms over his expansive chest. “The boiler is dead in the basement.”
“I brought heavy blankets.”
He let out a harsh breath through his nose. He reached into his jacket, his massive hand gently checking on the sleeping kitten one more time. The absolute contrast between his harsh words and his protective actions made my head spin. He unclipped a heavy steel flashlight from his hip.
“Go sit in that chair.” He pointed the heavy flashlight toward a sturdy wooden stool near the front register.
“Why?”
“Because if you walk under that archway again, I’ll physically carry you out the front door and lock it behind you.” The threat rolled out of him low and rough. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. He would do it perfectly easily.
I swallowed hard. My throat clicked in the quiet room.
I moved to the stool. I sat down.
He turned his broad back to me. He began inspecting the sagging archway, shining the bright beam of his flashlight directly into the cracking plaster. Dust showered down over his dark hair and his broad shoulders. He completely ignored it. He moved with a quiet, efficient grace that entirely contradicted his massive bulk. Every single movement was precise. Calculating. He wasn’t just looking at the damage; he was completely dismantling the problem in his head.
The silence stretched out. Just the sound of his heavy boots moving across the floorboards. The occasional scratch of his pen against a small notepad he pulled from his back pocket.
Violent tremors wracked my body. The adrenaline completely faded, leaving me painfully aware of the freezing draft. I rubbed my arms, wrapping my fingers tightly around my biceps. My bleeding palms throbbed with a dull, steady ache.
He stopped writing. He slid the notepad back into his tight denim pocket. Without a single word, he marched past me, out the open front door, and down the snow-covered steps.
I sat entirely alone in the freezing bakery. My stomach sank heavily. He left.
Of course he left. The massive contractor who just barked orders at me realized this place was a complete lost cause and walked away. I was alone again. Just like always. The weight of the failing building pressed down on my shoulders, heavier than before.
I stared at my bloody palms. Maybe he was exactly right. Maybe I was stupid to think I could salvage this ruin.
Boot steps thumped heavily on the front porch.
He ducked back through the doorway. He carried a huge wooden beam easily over one wide shoulder. His heavy steel toolbox swung from his other hand. He didn’t look at the door. He didn’t look at the snow.
He dropped the massive toolbox onto the floorboards with a deafening crash. He walked straight over to me.
He stood over my stool, dominating my space once again. His calloused, dirty hands rested solidly on his hips, right above his heavy toolbelt.
“Do not move from that spot.” He scowled down at me. “I’m fixing the header before the roof comes down on your ridiculous head.”
Handing Over the Keys
The sagging load-bearing header above the archway was a widow-maker.
Grady popped the rusted metal latches on his steel toolbox. The hinges shrieked in the quiet room. He pulled out a laser measure, snapping the sharp red dot from the damp floor to the bowing plaster above. Nine feet, four inches. The rotted pine groaned, buckling under the relentless pressure of a foot of mountain snowpack sitting on the roof. One bad gust of wind, and the ceiling would come crashing down, crushing everything beneath it.
Crushing her.
Inside his unzipped canvas jacket, the stray kitten slept against his chest. A tiny, vibrating furnace. Grady ignored the freezing wind whipping through the shattered front window. He dragged the thick six-by-six oak post he had hauled in from his truck across the warped floorboards. Splinters bit into his calloused palms. He welcomed the sting. The sharp friction grounded him.
He set a cast-iron hydraulic bottle jack beneath a temporary brace. He gripped the steel handle, pumping it with relentless, driving strokes. The cold air burned his lungs. Sweat broke along his hairline, trickling down his neck to soak the collar of his flannel. Muscle fibers tore and burned in his broad shoulders as he forced the stubborn jack upward. The rotting house shrieked in protest. Plaster dust showered down, coating his dark hair and his back in a fine white grit.
He did not stop until the ceiling lifted a fraction of an inch. Just enough. He kicked the oak post into the gap, aligning it plumb. He drew his framing hammer from his leather belt. Three brutal, driving swings buried the steel nails deep into the wood, locking the temporary support securely into place.
The immediate threat of death vanished.
Grady dropped the hammer back into its leather loop. He wiped his dirty brow with the back of his wrist. He turned around.
Maisie sat exactly where he put her. Perched on the wobbly wooden stool, her knees pressed tight together. Her thin sweater offered zero protection against the bitter mountain draft. Violet shadows bruised the delicate skin beneath her wide eyes. Dried blood flaked around her torn cuticles. She gripped an old metal paint scraper in her pale hands, her knuckles stark white.
She looked ready to fight him for the right to freeze to death.
A harsh, possessive instinct coiled tight in Grady’s gut. The urge to drag her off that stool, wrap her in his thick coat, and carry her out to his heated truck was a physical ache. She was too small. Too fragile to be fighting a collapsing building on her own. But he recognized the fierce, defensive tilt of her chin. She was used to fighting alone. If he barked another order at her, if he treated her like a problem to be solved, she would bolt into the snow.