Page 5 of A Tempting Seduction (Protectors of Jasper Creek #5)

Chapter Three

I climbed out of my work truck and stood for a moment in the gravel parking lot, letting my eyes trace the familiar lines of our building.

Larson Brothers Millwork. The sign we'd commissioned from a local artist had weathered the past seven years better than I'd expected, the carved letters still crisp against the barn-red background.

Pride swelled in my chest as I took in the expanded facility.

When Walker and I had first bought this place, it had been little more than a glorified garage with delusions of grandeur.

Now the main building stretched nearly three times its original size, with separate areas for rough work, finishing, and storage.

The addition we'd completed two years ago housed our office space and a showroom where clients could see examples of our craftsmanship.

Hard to believe it all started with a crazy idea and a business plan I'd written on a laptop in my Air Force barracks.

I'd been twenty-two when I left the service, my pockets heavy with deployment money and my head full of dreams. Most guys my age blew their savings on trucks or motorcycles or weekends in Vegas, which I’d briefly considered.

But instead, I'd spent mine on carpentry classes and business courses at the community college.

Walker had thought I'd lost my mind and Dad was proud.

“You want to do what?” Walker had asked during one of our rare phone calls. He'd been up in Alaska at the time, working the fishing boats with Jack and making more money than any twenty-three-year-old had a right to.

“Build furniture. Custom millwork. High-end stuff for people who appreciate quality.”

“You know there's easier ways to make a living, right?”

But Walker had come around eventually. When he finally got tired of freezing his ass off in the Bering Sea, he'd shown up in Jasper Creek with a duffel bag full of dirty clothes and a bank account that made my Air Force savings look like pocket change.

“So,” he'd said, standing in the middle of what would become our shop floor. “Show me this business plan of yours.”

The bank had been skeptical at first. Two brothers in their twenties asking for a six-figure loan to start a custom millwork business in a town of barely eight thousand people.

But our business plan had been solid, our combined savings substantial, and Walker's charm had worked its usual magic on the female loan officer. I’d made it clear after we were done that under no circumstances could he ever ask her out. He’d actually listened to me, for once.

Seven years later, we were booked solid for the next eleven months with enough specialty projects to keep our current full-time and contract employees busy. Time to think of additional hires.

I bypassed the office entrance and headed for the shop door instead. The familiar whine of the table saw and the rhythmic thrum of the planer told me Ivan had the crew working hard.

Good.

We had deadlines to meet and a reputation to maintain.

The moment I opened the shop door, the scent of mahogany hit me with a smell that gave me a bone-deep sense of self-satisfaction.

Mahogony was rich and complex, with hints of vanilla and spice that reminded me of expensive whiskey.

Most people couldn't tell the difference between one hardwood and another, but mahogany had a signature scent that was unmistakable.

I had to admit I always loved it when I smelled mahogany or any imported hardwood in my shop.

It meant that we were charging a premium.

The two-story front doors we were crafting for the Pigeon Forge mansion dominated the center of the shop floor.

Each door would stand twelve feet tall and four feet wide, their panels carved with an intricate geometric pattern that had taken Ivan's crew three weeks to perfect.

When complete, these doors would grace the entrance of a seven-million-dollar home overlooking the Smoky Mountains.

We had a lot more to do besides these doors, but that was fine by me, because our cut of the entire project would keep the lights on for the next six months.

Ivan Kozlov looked up from the workbench where he was inspecting one of the door panels.

At fifty-six, Ivan knew more about woodworking than most men could hope to learn in a lifetime.

His thick Ukrainian accent had mellowed after twenty years in Tennessee, but it still emerged when he got excited or frustrated.

“Ford!” He waved me over with a calloused hand. “We have problem.”

The worry lines creasing Ivan's weathered face made my stomach tighten. In the seven years we'd worked together, I'd rarely seen Ivan look genuinely concerned about anything. The man had built furniture for Soviet party officials back in the day. Not much rattled him.

“What kind of problem?”

Ivan gestured toward the door panels with obvious frustration. “Glass company is late again. Three days now, no delivery.”

I bit back a curse. The beveled glass inserts were the finishing touch these doors needed. Without them, we had twelve feet of expensive mahogany that looked impressive but wasn't complete. “Did you call them?”

“Every day.” Ivan's accent thickened with irritation. “They keep saying 'soon, soon,' but is always excuse. First delivery was wrong size, too small by quarter inch. Panels were useless.”

“I remember.” The first batch of glass had been a disaster. Five thousand dollars’ worth of custom beveled panels that couldn't be used because the glazer had misread our specifications. We'd been forced to send them back and start over, which had pushed our timeline back by two weeks.

“I call again this morning,” Ivan continued. “They say maybe Friday, maybe Monday. Is not good enough.”

The muscles in my neck tightened. We'd promised the client these doors would be ready by the end of the month.

That gave us exactly ten days to install the glass, complete the finish work, and coordinate delivery to Pigeon Forge.

Cutting it close was one thing. Missing the deadline entirely was unacceptable.

“I'll call them myself,” I said. “If they can't give us a firm delivery date, I'll find another glazer.”

Ivan's expression brightened slightly. “Good. I have backup plan if needed. My cousin Dmitri works for glass company in Knoxville. Not as fancy, but they deliver on time.”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that, but if I can’t get a firm commitment from them tomorrow, I’ll cancel and go with your cousin.”

Ivan nodded.

“How's everything else looking?”

“Finishing work is on schedule. Marcus has first door almost ready for final sanding.” Ivan nodded toward the far end of the shop where Marcus Williams bent over a panel with fine-grit sandpaper. “Tommy and Keith are working on hardware installation for the interior doors.”

I glanced around the shop, taking inventory.

Tommy Patterson, our full-time employee besides Ivan, was carefully installing hinges on a set of cabinet doors.

Keith Morrison, one of our contracted craftsmen, worked alongside him with the focused intensity of a man who took pride in his work.

The second contractor, Brian Hayes, operated the planer with the steady rhythm that came from years of experience.

It was good to see the shop running at full capacity again. The past three months had been a whirlwind of activity as we ramped up for this project. After eighteen months of working out of Nashville hotel rooms, being back in our own shop felt like coming home.

“Client has been calling every week to check progress,” Ivan said with a grin. “Mr. Davidson is very excited to see finished product.”

“Can't blame him. Seven million for a house, he wants to make sure every detail is perfect.”

“Is good for us. Happy client means more referrals.”

Ivan was right. Word of mouth was everything in the custom millwork business. One satisfied customer in the Pigeon Forge luxury market could lead to a dozen more projects. We'd already fielded three inquiries from other contractors working in the area.

“Speaking of which,” Ivan's eyes twinkled with mischief. “I hear you had exciting morning yesterday.”

Heat crept up my neck. “Don't start.”

“Is not every day Ford Larson gets knocked down by tiny dog.” Ivan's grin widened. “Dave Draper told whole story at Down Home Diner this morning. Very dramatic.”

“Dave wasn't even there.”

“No, but Florence was. And Florence never met story she couldn't improve.” Ivan chuckled. “She say dog was size of flea but had heart of wolf. You fought bravely but were overcome.”

I groaned. “It was a Chihuahua. It was five pounds,” I defended.

“Ah, but was beautiful woman who came to your rescue, yes?” Ivan's eyebrows waggled suggestively. “Ruby with the red hair and green eyes. Very nice girl.”

“Ivan—”

“I just say. You could do worse than coffee shop girl with kind heart.”

The man had a point, but I wasn't about to admit it. “Can we focus on work, please?”

“Of course, of course.” Ivan's expression turned serious. “You go call glass company. I keep crew working on other pieces.”

I headed toward the office, already pulling my phone from my pocket to dial the glazer's number. Before I could even enter the building, the phone buzzed with an incoming call.

Walker's name flashed on the screen.

“What's up?” I answered.

“When are you planning to show up at the Sadowski site?” Walker's voice carried the edge that meant he was irritated about something.

I paused with my hand on the office door handle. “Who pissed in your oatmeal this morning?”

“I'm serious, Ford. Harvey's been asking where you are.”

“I was there yesterday. Spent two hours going over the specs with Renzo. We're not scheduled to start any actual work until next week.”