by L. B. Dunbar
Sexy Silver Foxes
When sexy silver foxes meet the women of their dreams.
After Care
Midlife Crisis
Restored Dreams
Second Chance
Wine&Dine
The Silver Foxes of Blue Ridge
More sexy silver foxes in the mountain community of Blue Ridge
Silver Brewer
Silver Player
Silver Mayor
Silver Biker
Collision novellas
A spin-off from After Care – the younger set/rock stars
Collide
Caught – a short story
Smartypants Romance (an imprint of Penny Reid)
Tales of the Winters sisters set in Penny Reid’s Green Valley.
Love in Due Time
Love in Deed
Love in a Pickle (2021)
Rom-com for the over 40
The Sex Education of M.E.
The Heart Collection
Small town, sweet and sexy stories of family and love.
Speak from the Heart
Read with your Heart
Look with your Heart
Fight from the Heart
View with your Heart
Spin-off Standalone
The Heart Remembers
The Legendary Rock Star Series
Rock star mayhem in the tradition of King Arthur.
A classic tale with a modern twist of romance and suspense
The Legend of Arturo King
The Story of Lansing Lotte
The Quest of Perkins Vale
The Truth of Tristan Lyons
The Trials of Guinevere DeGrance
The Island Duet
The island knows what you’ve done.
Redemption Island
Return to the Island
Paradise Stories
Abel
Cain
Modern Descendants – writing as elda lore
Modern myths of Greek gods.
Hades
Solis
Heph
Keep in touch with L.B. Dunbar
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Turn the page for an excerpt of Silver Brewer.
A sip of Silver Brewer
1
A long and winding road
[Letty]
Where the hell am I?
I’m losing the GPS on my phone, and I feel as though I’ve passed the same copse of trees three times.
Who can tell?
Birches, maples, and cedars surround me, and those are the trees I recognize. Everything is a sea of thick bark and greenery, but soon, this forest will be ablaze with golds, reds, and oranges. The changing season is the reason for my rush. I need to secure the property before winter so the ground can be broken first thing next spring.
Working for Mullen Realty, I’ve climbed my way up from assistant office manager to assistant seller to commercial real estate agent. Not exactly my career choice but it’s been a steady income. When I didn’t have a job at twenty-four using my college degree in English, my mom made me go to work for my uncle, a real estate mogul in Chicago. I’m now forty, so I guess you could say I settled into the family business. Uncle Frank prides himself on buying and selling, and what he wants is to buy this godforsaken property in Georgia and sell it to a hotel company who wants the space for their next lodge-like resort and spa.
As the only vehicle in sight while I wind through the curving roads, I’m waiting for Jason to jump out with his creepy hockey mask and start swinging a chainsaw at me at any second. I might have mixed a few horror movies together, but that’s the scene in my head as I weave along the narrow drive. I’m not even certain I’m in the correct county, let alone the right state anymore. I need Blue Ridge, Georgia, but all I’ve seen for miles is tree trunks and foliage, and occasionally, the inconspicuous marking for a turnoff. From the office, Marcus tries to assure me I’m in the correct place.
“There are only two tire tracks leading to nowhere,” I say into the phone, struggling to drive the rented Jetta over the rough terrain.
“That’s it. You’re in the right place. Don’t mess this up,” his gruff voice barks through the speaker.
I hit a bump, and the phone jostles out of the cup holder to the floor.
Dammit.
I can’t risk reaching for it, and I’m too afraid to stop until I see the place I’m destined to find.
Harrington cabin.
I’m not certain what I expect. I’ve been told it’s rustic, but I don’t know if that means quaint or just plain rough. Either way, Mullen Real Estate wants the property.
“I think I’m almost there,” I shout, as the phone lies facedown on the passenger side floor. I can’t hear Marcus’s reply. He’s not only my assistant but one of my best friends, and he knows this acquisition is important to me. I’d prove myself as a skilled real estate buyer if I can book this deal. I’d also solidify my position in the company and earn myself a cut of the business.
Partner.
The word echoes through my head. The sound has a nice ring to it.
Olivet Pierson. Partner.
As the dirt road narrows, I see light at the end of the tunnel of trees. A clearing of sorts opens before me, and I slow even more than the five miles per hour I’ve been driving. As I break through the lane, a vision of masculinity stands before me. With his shirt off, the bare back of a muscular being slings an ax over his shoulder, splitting a piece of wood standing upright on another log. The thwack isn’t heard inside the car, but the thunderous power in which he cracks the wood seems to vibrate under my vehicle and into my foot. I’m frozen at the appearance of his rippling back, sweaty spine, and low-slung pants that suggest he wears boxer briefs by the sliver of waistband exposed. In red. The hair on top of his head is short, trimmed close but not military style to his skull, while a bush of facial hair covers his jaw. My eyes focus on his profile as he stands and straightens, then quickly turns to see my car. Deep, dark eyes narrow, zeroing in on me in anger. He drops the ax and raises his hands, his mouth opening, but I don’t hear what he says.
I’m blinded by the gleam of sunlight bouncing off his firm chest, a sprinkle of hair in the shape of a V between the flat plains of his pecs and above the slow hills of his abs. More hair leads south, dipping into the red band exposed above his waistline, and my mouth waters until two large hands hit the hood of my rental car, and I notice his mouth move as he shouts.
“Stop.”
Oh. My. God.
My foot slams on the brake, causing me to jolt forward and narrowly missing the bridge of my nose on the steering wheel. I stare out the front windshield, taking in the appearance of the man I almost hit. He’s a mountain of a man, someone I envision people wrote tales about long ago. He’s lumbersexual by modern standards, and then I note his hair again. Cropped and charcoal. It isn’t black but more like the smoky color before the coals are ready. A perfect blend of dusty silver covers his head and jaw. He’s a silver fox, but from the size of him, he looks more like an angry grizzly.
“I’m so sorry,” I mutter as I place the car in park and scramble to remove myself from the rental. My ankles twist as the heels I wear can’t balance on the uneven dirt beneath my feet. I clutch the open driver’s door for support, expecting to fall and knock my chin. How many stitches would I need? Is there even a doctor out here? A hospital nearby? Oh God, I might bleed to death.
Then I take note of the puzzled man before me, still leaning against my hood.
Staring at him, I’d die a happy woman.
However, the vibe coming off him is anything but pleased. His chest heaves as his eyes nearly disappear while he squints at me.
“Who are you?” He emphasizes each word as he sp
eaks. I certainly can’t use the statement “I was in the neighborhood” because I doubt you’d find another human being within miles.
Oh Lord, if I screamed, would anyone hear me? If a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound if no one is around to hear it? My thoughts are out of control.
“I’m Olivet Pierson, and I’m looking for George Harrington the second. Is this the Harrington cabin?”
I’m here for the land, but the cabin catches my sight. The two-story building is of medium size, balanced with a window on either side of a single front door, standing open and inviting. A heavy metal overhang shadows the porch, which runs the full length of the cabin. The weathered gray structure with the deep black shingled roof doesn’t look worn. It appears brand new. With a small yard and a forestry backdrop, the place looks quite homey.
“How did you get here?” His gruff voice returns my attention to him. His curiosity causes him to look up over the back of my car, staring down the pinched lane I traveled.
“Are you George Harrington?”
His head swings back to me, and his lips twist. Pressing off my car, he turns for a cloth on the pile of wood and wipes his face with it. Absentmindedly, he travels down his chest, or rather purposely, as he must know I’m watching his every move. I’m practically salivating as he takes his time to swipe across his broad pecs and dip to the trail leading lower. He pats himself with the cloth over the zipper region of his pants, and I flinch. My eyes flick upward, and his lips mockingly smirk.
I can’t say it’s a smile. His face looks far too serious for such a thing. Crinkles mark the edges of his eyes, and his cheekbones are well-defined. He might have been teasing me, but his face gives nothing away.
“So…” I repeat. “Are you George?”
“You must be looking for my father,” he states, tossing what I realize is a white T-shirt back onto the pile of wood. He picks up the ax, and I try to catch my breath. I’m gripping the open door for support, peering at him as he turns his back on me and lifts the wood-chopping instrument. The sound of a splintering log resonates loudly around us, echoing in the deep quiet. I take a second to look around me, no longer lost in the woods, but noticing the beauty of various shades of green. Steeples of pines and broad sweeps of maple whisper in the breeze with a glorious blue sky as its backdrop. The landscape is breathtaking, and the silence reminds me this is the perfect location for a spa and resort. Secluded. Rustic. Peaceful.
Thwack.
Another log splits, and I shift my attention back to Mr. Lumbersexy.
“Do you know anything about the property?” I ask, interrupting him mid-swing. He doesn’t miss the log, but it doesn’t crack. The ax bounces back, and the log topples to its side. When he turns on me, the move is aggressive in nature, yet I find I don’t fear him. His mouth opens, but I speak.
“I’m told it’s owned by George Harrington II. A Miss Elaina Harrington on Mountain Spring Lane told me how to get here. Told me I’d find him here.” I pause as he glares at me. I stopped at the original address given to me by the office. Mountain Spring Lane was a dirt strip with three impressive antebellum homes along the private drive. Old money covered the white paint of each house.
When he doesn’t speak, I continue. “It’s a beautiful piece of property.” I turn my head as if I’m noticing the land, but all I can concentrate on is the weight of his eyes on me, knowing he’s following the twist of my neck as I gaze around me.
“What do you want?” he snaps. The gruffness of his tone snaps my attention back to him. Maybe Grumpy is a better name for him instead of Sexy Lumberjack.
“I’m looking to discuss purchasing the land.”
The ax slips from his hand while his other hand fists into a ball of knuckles. He’s scary, but again, I don’t fear him for some reason.
“It’s not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale, Mr.…” He still doesn’t offer his name, but I’m sensing I’m in the right place, so he must be George Harrington.
“Listen…” He pauses, and I offer my name.
“Olivet Pierson. Mullen Realty,” I say, walking around my door and closing it. Reaching forward for his hand, I realize my palm already sweats with the anticipation of touching the paw of his. The closer I get to him, he appears even bigger, and we stand in contrast to one another. He’s bare chested in wood shaving-covered pants and rustic work boots while I’m wobbling in my heels with a pencil skirt, blazer, and uncomfortable blouse.
His eyes glance down at my hand, but he doesn’t reciprocate and reach for mine. Instead, he crosses his arms, puffing out his barrel chest and producing two large biceps, flexed in warning.
“Cricket,” he begins, but I correct him.
“Olivet.”
“This place isn’t for sale, so you can just reverse out of here, hopefully without backing into an unsuspecting tree, and return to wherever you came from.” All those words in his definitive tone add up to one: Leave. But I’m not going anywhere without the security of this property signed on a dotted line.
“Now Mr. Harrington,” I say. Lowering my hand, I place both on the hood of my car. The problem is I’m still looking up at him, so I’m not really in a position of authority to talk him down. This always looks good in the movies, but it’s clearly not working with my five-foot-seven stature compared to his six-foot-plus-too-many-extra-inches height.
“Giant,” he states, and I stop.
“Excuse me?”
“Everyone calls me Giant.”
“Well, Mr. Giant—”
“What do you want with the land?” he interjects, his voice still thunder deep but not so menacing.
“I work for Mullen Realty in Chicago, and we’d like to acquire this property for a resort—”
“A resort?” he huffs, his arms falling to his sides as he interrupts me. He turns his large head to the side, giving me a view of his profile. Strong facial features, a sharp nose broken at least once, and a tic to his jaw as he concentrates on something in the distance. “Do you know anything about this property, Cricket?”
“Olivet,” I correct. “And yes, I do. I know it’s a fine piece of land situated perfectly for a beautiful resort that will offer people peace and tranquility away from their hectic lives.” I ramble off the future brochure sure to include such words to entice potential visitors. The serenity around us reminds me I’m not far off from my speculation.
He harrumphs, crossing his arms again. Not as fierce as the first time and more casual in nature, he shakes his head as though he’s laughing at me. Only he isn’t laughing. “It’s not for sale.”
I dismiss his words, considering what he would look like with laughter on his face. Would his cheeks glow? His mouth spread? I bet he has white teeth. A smile and a good chuckle might set him on fire. He’s already larger than life in size, but with a good guffaw, he’d be bigger than thunder. A Greek god of sound and stature.
He’s staring at me, and I realize I’ve taken too long to respond. I eye the cabin behind him. Rustic is one word for it. Cozy, graying, inviting. I rid the possibility of seeing the inside from my head. He probably hides bodies under the porch. I chuckle with the thought. He’s fierce but not fearsome. There’s just something about him. My head tilts, and my eyes pinch. I decide to change tactics. A new appeal.
“If it’s a matter of money—”
“I don’t need money.” He scoffs, cutting me off and glaring at me again with a look of offense. “There isn’t enough money in the world for me to give up this place.”
My mouth pops open. “So, you are George Harrington the second?”
“I told you, I’m Giant, and I think we’re done here, Cricket.”
“Now, Mr. Harrington—”
He turns his back to me, that beautifully muscular back. My mouth waters, and I want to kiss up the river of his spine and along the flexing plains of his shoulder blades, which is absolutely ridiculous, considering he’s a stranger. Besides, I’ve sworn off men. Pretty men with fa
ncy names. No thank you. Although this man isn’t pretty. He’s weathered and worn like the cabin behind him, and for once, I’d like to be a little less straitlaced and buttoned-up. The collar of my blouse itches.
“Name your price, Mr. Harrington,” I shout to his retreating back. He’s abandoned the wood pile and stalks toward the low porch. Without touching the first stair, he steps up to the platform, swallowed by the shade of the overhang. My eyes are fixated on two firm globes filling out his Carhartt pants. Oh my. Within seconds, he’s disappeared inside the cabin, closing the door on my proposal.
Well, that certainly didn’t go as planned.
(L)ittle (B)lessings of Gratitude
This book was written in 2020, a year that will go down in history because of COVID-19 and cultural upheaval. It’s been a difficult year to be creative, and yet James Harrington, and the entire Harrington family have been on my mind for a while. If I didn’t know where their lives would lead before this year, this book might never have been written. However, James and Evie are two of the rawest characters I’ve ever written and a trope I desperately wanted to write – a true second chance.
My gratitude in this year goes first and foremost to Mel and Jenny. Their patience with my deadlines has been generous and unbelievable, and once again, I’m humbled by the people in my life. Thank you Shannon for another edgy, striking cover design. Believe it or not, it’s difficult to find sexy silver fox photographs, and Shannon’s skill gives just the hint I need. I’d like to thank Karen for her eagle eye proofreading and additionally, Jenny McCoy Alfred, for last minute detailing.
I’d like to add a special thank you to Dani Sanchez, and Wildfire Marketing Solutions, for their extra push and support in spreading the word about the Harringtons and the Silver Foxes of Blue Ridge.
To all the readers in Loving L.B., God knows you have been my salvation this year. In laughter and tears, you stand by me, and I by you, and it just makes this journey all the sweeter every day.