Hardwood Creek 🏨 | Part 2: Town Hall (Patreon)

All characters are 18+ and this story is entirely fictional.Everything that happens is safe, sane, and consensual.

It took less than three days for me to decide that time moved differently in this place. The city had been loud and constant, every minute accounted for, my schedule stacked with meetings, brunches, gym classes, and whatever else my assistant had insisted I attend. Here, the hours stretched, slow and uneven, like the cracked asphalt that ran through the town. Mornings bled into afternoons, afternoons into evenings, each day defined not by deadlines but by the creak of the motel’s floorboards and Milo’s incessant chatter.

I told myself I was adjusting. Really, I was just enduring. The novelty of my exile had worn off by the third night, when I lay awake listening to a couple two doors down who apparently mistook the paper-thin walls for silk drapes in the Ritz. Every moan and grunt carried into my room until I buried my head under a pillow and swore I was too civilized for this. Milo only laughed when I complained, his eyeliner smudged from a night out at the diner, nails tapping against the counter like he was playing a private joke on me.

It was during one of these slow mornings that Milo shoved a crumpled notice across the counter. “Town Hall wants this signed,” he said, smirking like he’d just handed me a death sentence. “Something about ownership records and…whatever. You’ll figure it out, Jules.”

“Town Hall?” I repeated, staring at the letterhead like it was a foreign language.

“Two blocks down. Big white building with the flag out front. Don’t worry, it’s not Buckingham Palace. You’ll live.”

I considered ignoring him, but boredom is a dangerous thing. Two hours later, I found myself walking up the steps of the squat little office, my loafers clicking against cracked stone. The building smelled faintly of paper, lemon cleaner, and something older, like history that refused to be scrubbed away.

And then there was him.

Behind a desk stacked with ledgers and neatly ordered files sat Simon Hale. Pale blue shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms, tie knotted perfectly. He looked up when I entered, glasses catching the light, and smiled in a way that felt like he already knew more about me than I wanted him to.

“Julian Westbrook,” he said smoothly, as if testing the name on his tongue. “The new owner of the motel. I’ve been expecting you.”

My mouth went dry. Not because of the words, but because of the way he leaned forward, elbows resting casually on the desk, eyes sharp and deliberate. It wasn’t the lazy interest I’d gotten from men at city bars, or the forced politeness of business meetings. His attention was focused, patient, and so steady it made me feel suddenly transparent. For once, I had nothing witty to say.

I cleared my throat, straightened my scarf, and tried to reassemble the person I had been in the city; the Julian who didn’t falter when men looked at him too long. “Expecting me?” I managed, my tone clipped, as if I could hide the sudden hitch in my chest.

He gestured to the stack of paperwork neatly arrayed before him. “Ownership transfer documents. You’ll need to sign where indicated. It’s standard procedure whenever property like that…” His eyes flickered briefly, wickedly, “…changes hands.”

I stepped closer, my loafers tapping across the wooden floor, and perched on the edge of the chair across from him. The desk was wide but suddenly felt like nothing at all, just a flimsy barrier between his calm confidence and my desperate attempt to act unbothered.

Up close, Simon was devastating in the most infuriating way. Not flashy or loud. He radiated that quiet kind of order, the kind that made you want to lean in even when you swore you wouldn’t. His tie was thin and neat, his shirt fitted without strain, his glasses framing eyes that seemed to see everything I hadn’t said aloud.

“So,” I said, picking up the pen he slid toward me, “do you always make your newcomers feel like they’re under interrogation?”

His lips curved slightly. “Only the ones who look like they don’t belong here.”

My pen paused over the page. My pulse kicked embarrassly fast.

“You mean overdressed?” I shot back, forcing my smirk, willing him not to see the pink climbing up my neck.

“Overdressed. Overpolished. Over… everything.” He tilted his head, studying me as if I were a specimen under glass. “But I’ll admit, it’s refreshing. This town has enough plaid shirts and muddy boots to last a lifetime.”

The flirtation hung between us, unspoken but unmistakable. He didn’t blink, didn’t fidget. He just let the weight of his gaze do the work, and I hated how easily I leaned into it.

I signed where indicated, my rings glinting against the paper, trying to appear casual. But when I slid the forms back, his fingers brushed mine…deliberate, lingering just long enough to send a spark straight up my arm. My breath caught, and his mouth tilted into that almost-smile again.

“Efficient,” he murmured. “I like that.”

I exhaled through my nose, fighting the urge to fan myself with the paperwork. “I’m very efficient,” I said, though my voice came out thinner than intended.

Simon leaned back, folding his hands together, the slow kind of movement that drew my eyes unwillingly to the veins in his forearms. “I’m sure you are. Tell me, Mr. Westbrook…how are you finding Hardwood Creek so far?”

My instinct was to scoff, to say something scathing about peeling wallpaper and moaning guests at two in the morning. Instead, I heard myself saying, “It’s… different. Slower.”

“Slower isn’t always bad,” he said, his voice lower now, softer, as if meant only for me. “It leaves room for other things.”

Our eyes locked. My body betrayed me, leaning just slightly forward, curious, desperate, annoyed at myself all at once.

A silence stretched, weighted and humming. I tried to shift the conversation, clearing my throat. “Do you….does the office always run this… smoothly?”

He chuckled, the sound low and even. “We do our best. Though I admit, we don’t often get visitors like you. It’s nice, for a change.”

The compliment, casual as it was, landed squarely in my chest. I tightened my grip on the pen, setting it down too neatly on the desk. “Well. Glad to provide… variety.”

Simon stood, coming around the desk with an ease that made me instantly aware of my posture. He leaned a hand against the wood just beside me, close but not intrusive, as if testing how much space I’d allow him to steal. His other hand reached for the forms I’d signed, his fingers brushing again…less accident this time, more punctuation.

“Coffee?” he asked. “Or water? It’s been unseasonably warm today.”

I swallowed, caught off guard by the simple courtesy after all that deliberate tension. “Water,” I said, perhaps too quickly.

He poured from a pitcher on the side table, sliding the glass toward me with a grace that felt almost courtly. A gentleman, I thought, though one who clearly enjoyed watching me unravel.

I took a sip, hoping it would calm the fire still crawling up my skin. “So,” I said carefully, “do you always flirt during business hours, or is this a special arrangement?”

Simon’s eyes lit faintly, though his smile stayed mild. “Only when the company makes it worthwhile.”

My throat tightened around the water. I set the glass down too quickly, the faint clink echoing in the small office.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” I said, aiming for dismissive but landing closer to breathless.

“I’ve had time to practice,” he replied, his gaze steady. “And you? You strike me as someone used to being sure of himself too.”

That almost made me laugh. Almost. Instead I leaned back, crossing my legs with a deliberate flourish, letting my shoe dangle. “I manage.”

“Mm.” He studied me again, his expression unreadable. Then, with the faintest smile: “I’d like to see that.”

The words, simple as they were, sent another spark crawling down my spine. I hated how much I wanted to lean into it.

Simon returned behind the desk, straightening the papers, as though he hadn’t just tilted the ground beneath me. “If you ever need anything… official,” he said, “or someone to show you around… you know where to find me.”

I stood too quickly, clutching the papers like a lifeline. My pulse was a runaway train. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kiss him, roll my eyes at him, or run. Probably all three.

“Thank you, Mr. Hale,” I said, almost stumbling over the word.

His smile followed me all the way out the door.

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The air outside felt hotter than before, the sun merciless as it hit my face. My reflection in the glass door revealed the flush I couldn’t hide. I adjusted my scarf, pulled my shoulders back, and walked as briskly as possible down the steps.

By the time I reached the motel again, Milo was draped across the counter, legs kicked up, black polish chipped on his nails. He looked up, saw my face, and his grin spread slow and wicked.

“Oh my god,” he gasped theatrically. “Who was it? Who put that smile on your face?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, breezing past him, my cheeks still burning.

“You’re practically glowing, Jules.” He slid off the counter, following me like a shadow. “Don’t tell me Town Hall is that exciting. Wait…don’t tell me it was Simon Hale.”

I froze.

Milo squealed. “It was! Oh my god. I knew it. He has that whole repressed-accountant thing going on, doesn’t he? Did he say something flirty? Did he adjust his glasses at you? Ugh, you’re so predictable.”

“I signed some forms,” I muttered, grabbing the nearest folder like it was urgent.

“And got a boner doing it,” Milo teased, hip-checking me as he passed. “Don’t worry, babe. Everyone in this town has wanted Simon Hale at some point. You’re just next on the list.”

I rolled my eyes, but the heat in my face gave me away.

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By the time I got back to my room, the heat of the afternoon had finally cracked into evening. Cicadas buzzed outside, their song threading through the thin curtains. I kicked off my loafers, loosened my scarf, and tried not to replay every second of Simon Hale’s gaze in my mind.

I nearly convinced myself I was calmer until the air conditioner sputtered, coughed, and then died with a pitiful wheeze.

“Of course,” I muttered, pressing the useless button again. The silence that followed was worse than the broken hum. The room already felt warmer, heavy with the weight of late summer.

I found Milo in the office, perched on the counter with his phone in hand. He looked up, smirking before I even opened my mouth.

“Let me guess,” he said, “something in your palace is falling apart?”

“The air conditioner,” I admitted, trying for nonchalance. “It just quit.”

Milo’s grin sharpened. “Oh, lucky you.” He swiped at his phone with deliberate flourish. “That means we get to call Noah.”

“Noah?” I repeated, though I remembered Milo’s teasing tone when he’d first pointed out Ethan at the barn. “Who’s Noah?”

“Our handyman,” Milo said, as if the word alone explained everything. “He fixes things. He builds things. He—” Milo stopped, biting back a laugh. “Actually, I’ll let you find out for yourself.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why do you sound like you’re setting me up on a blind date?”

“Because, sweet Jules,” Milo purred, already dialing, “Noah is… well. Let’s just say I wouldn’t mind breaking a lamp once a week if it meant getting him to come over.”

Milo picked up the phone and his grin only widened. He covered the mouthpiece just long enough to whisper, “Try not to drool. Or do. He likes that.”

I swatted his arm, but my stomach twisted with a nervous anticipation I refused to name.

“Hey, Noah?” Milo said into the phone, voice dropping into something almost syrupy. “Yeah, sorry to bother you so late, but our new owner’s air conditioner just gave out. Think you could swing by?” A pause, then Milo’s grin spread like wildfire. “Perfect. I’ll owe you one.”

He hung up, tossing the phone onto the counter with a flourish. “He’s on his way.”

I folded my arms, fighting the heat creeping up my neck. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” Milo said, winking, “are about to have your evening ruined or saved. Depends how you look at it.”

The cicadas sang louder. My pulse quickened, ridiculous and uninvited. And just like that, my quiet evening had a new name written all over it.

────────────────Hardwood Creek 🏨 | Part 3: The Handyman