A Man Worth Keeping
Two years laterMax Mitchell slid the two-by-four over the sawhorses and brushed the snow off his hand tools, but more fat flakes fell to replace what he'd moved.
It was only nine in the morning, and the forecast had called for squalls all day.
Winter. Nothing good about it.
Of course, spending every minute of the season outside was a surefire way to cultivate his dislike of the cold. But lately, walls no matter how far away—and ceilings—no matter how high—felt too close. Like coffins.
The thick brown gloves didn't keep out the chill so he clapped his hands together, scaring blackbirds from the tree line a few feet behind him.
Even the skeleton structure he'd spent the past few months constructing seemed to shiver and quake in the cold December morning.
He eyed his building and for about the hundredth time he wondered what it was going to be ... read full excerpt from A Man Worth Keeping ebook
