Clay Bennett, 58, retired wildland firefighter and owner of Clay’s Cut Firewood, leaned against a dented plastic folding table at the neighborhood block party, half-eaten brisket sandwich in one hand and sweating IPA in the other. He’d only shown up because his next-door neighbor had banged on his door at 1pm, yelling that the caterer had brought Texas-style brisket so good it’d make him forget the 8 months of screaming email fights he’d had with the HOA board over their dumb firewood storage ban. He’d grumbled, pulled on his faded 2017 Yellowstone fire crew tee and scuffed work boots, and trundled over, fully planning to avoid every HOA member on sight.
The sun beat down heavy, 82 degrees with a faint pine breeze blowing off the foothills, and the air reeked of charcoal, smoked paprika, cut grass, and the sugary smell of the snow cone machine set up by the bounce house. He’d just wiped a glob of brisket rub off his chin when a hip bumped hard into his left side, hard enough that a slosh of beer spilled over the rim of his can onto his wrist.
“Sorry, that was all me,” a woman’s voice said, warm and a little amused. He looked down, and his jaw went tight. It was Maren Hale, 49, the new HOA president he’d been calling a power-hungry tyrant to every guy at the hardware store for the last half year. She was wearing cutoff denim shorts and a loose linen button-down tied at the waist, freckles splashed across her nose, chipped oak-colored stain on the edges of her fingernails. She held a can of root beer in one hand, and she didn’t step back, even though there was three feet of empty table to her left.
Clay grunted, wiped the beer off his wrist on the side of his tee. “Figured you’d be over by the sign-up sheet, bugging people about planting native flowers.”
Maren laughed, a low, throaty sound that made the back of his neck tingle, and he hated himself for noticing. “Fair. I did spend two hours this morning arguing with the old board about that native flower rule, for the record. Also pushed through a reversal of the firewood ban. Votes went through last night. You can stack that oak pile back against your side fence whenever you want.”
Clay blinked. He’d spent 4 hours drafting his last email to her, attaching 3 photos of his neatly stacked wood, a copy of his state fire safety certification, and a 2-paragraph rant about how the old board’s ban was punitive to anyone who actually heated their house with wood instead of overpriced gas. He’d fully expected to have to take the fight to small claims court. “You’re messing with me.”
“Wouldn’t dare.” She leaned in a little, her shoulder brushing his bicep through the thin cotton of his tee, and he could smell coconut sunscreen and pine sawdust on her skin. “I make cutting boards as a side gig. I’ve been bugging the board to lift the ban so I could store small lumber stacks in my side yard too, for the record. You were just the convenient, very loud test case.”
He snorted, and for the first time all afternoon, he felt the tight knot of resentment in his chest loosen a little. He’d spent so long treating her like the enemy he hadn’t even bothered to look past the HOA title. They talked for 20 minutes, leaning against that wobbly table, ignoring the rest of the party, as his beer got warm and his brisket sat forgotten. She told him she’d moved to the neighborhood 8 months prior, after her divorce, had bought a little fixer-upper two streets over, had taken up woodworking when her ex took the boat and left her with a garage full of unused tools. He told her about his 22 years on the fire crew, about his wife Karen who’d passed 6 years prior from breast cancer, about how he’d started the firewood business to keep himself busy instead of sitting on the porch drinking beer all day.
A group of kids darted past them chasing a water balloon, and one of them slammed into Maren’s back hard enough that she stumbled forward. Clay reacted on instinct, years of catching crew members mid-slip on steep mountain sides, and wrapped one calloused hand around her waist to steady her. Her skin was soft and warm under the thin linen of her shirt, and she didn’t pull away, just turned her head to look up at him, hazel eyes flecked with gold, so close he could feel her breath on his chin. “Thanks,” she said, quiet, like she didn’t want anyone else to hear.
His throat went dry. He’d not touched a woman like that, intentionally, since Karen died. Part of him felt sick, guilty, like he was betraying a memory he’d spent 6 years clutching so tight it ached. The rest of him was buzzing, hot, like he was standing too close to a campfire, every nerve ending firing like a live wire. He let go slowly, his thumb brushing the edge of her waistband for half a second before he pulled his hand back to his side.
“Least I can do, since you fixed the ban,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. She smiled, and the corner of her mouth quirked up like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“I’ve been looking for a reliable source of kiln-dried oak for my thicker cutting boards,” she said, and she pulled her phone out of her back pocket, tapped the screen a few times before holding it out to him. “You got a stack I can look at? I’ll pay your going rate, plus bring you a free walnut cutting board I finished last week, as a peace offering for all the stupid emails I had to send back to you.”
Clay took the phone, his fingers brushing hers when he grabbed it, and typed his cell number and address in slow, like he was scared he’d mess it up. He handed it back, and she saved the contact as “Clay (Firewood Guy No Longer My Enemy)” before she slipped it back in her pocket. “I’m free tomorrow at 10, if that works,” he said. “Yard’s unlocked, just pull around back.”
“Perfect.” She grabbed a napkin off the table, wiped a smudge of brisket sauce off the corner of his jaw before he could react, her thumb warm against his skin. “I’ll bring coffee too. Black, right? You strike me as a black coffee guy.”
He nodded, too stunned to speak, and she laughed that same low laugh before she turned and walked away, heading toward the group of women waving her over by the snow cone machine. He picked up his forgotten IPA, took a long sip of the warm, bitter beer, and leaned back against the table, already counting down the hours until 10am the next day.
