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  SEDUCED BY MOONLIGHT

  Moonlight Ridge Mountain Men 4

  CARLY KEENE

  THISTLE KNOLL PUBLISHING

  Copyright © 2020 Carly Keene. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. The only exception is that short excerpts may be quoted in a review.

  Cover designed by GraphicDiz at Fiverr.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Willa

  “Ma’am, where do you want this?” the delivery guy asks me.

  He’s wearing a shirt from one of the big-box home improvement stores that often donates to my nonprofit company’s projects, but I don’t know which materials are in the boxes, so I hesitate.

  He opens one box to show me plumbing stuff. “It’s faucets and drain plugs for the sinks. Factory seconds, but I checked ‘em over and they’re all real nice,” he says earnestly. “We didn’t want to send anything you couldn’t really use.”

  “Thanks so much,” I tell him, and smile. “Over there in the staging area would be great.”

  He nods and starts bringing in the dolly with the boxes.

  I open my tablet and check off a box on the materials list, and then my phone rings. It’s Ethelene Harris, the woman we’re rehabbing this home for, so I answer the call with a cheery hello.

  “Willa?” Multiple sclerosis has not yet affected her voice the way it has her legs. “I hate to ask, since y’all are being so nice about putting me and the boys up at the hotel during the construction—but Lewis forgot to bring his stuffed bunny. Would you possibly be able to bring it by when you finish work today?”

  “Sure thing, Ethelene. Is it on his bed?”

  “Probably under the pillow.”

  “I’ll go get it now,” I say, and head for the stairs, still talking. “Everybody settled into the suite okay?”

  “Just fine. You know I appreciate so much what y’all are doing for us, making the house suitable for me in the wheelchair . . .” She tails off and I hear a little sniffle.

  “It’s what we do,” I say warmly. “I love meeting people and I love helping their everyday lives better.” I pick up eight-year-old Lewis’s pillow to find a bedraggled, much-loved blue stuffed rabbit under it. “Hey, I got the bunny. I’ll go put him in my car now and he can ride shotgun on the way to the hotel. Tell Lewis we’re good.”

  As I’m heading downstairs I’m mentally reviewing my to-do list again:

  ● Make sure all materials necessary for renovating the house for Ms. Harris’s special needs are on-site by the end of the day.

  ● Check in with the plumber and the electrician, and introduce both local subcontractors to Jeff, AmeriShelter’s construction manager for this project.

  ● Go over the blueprints one more time with Jeff.

  ● Then get the heck out of the way so the contractors can get working. I can do some gruntwork here and there, because you don’t spend three years as AmeriShelter client liaison without learning how to hammer or put up drywall or measure for cabinets or paint, but mostly at this point I’m just doing all the little things that make the house really ready to turn over to the homeowner.

  We’ve only got a week to finish this rehab. The biggest part of the renovation is adding a small elevator so Ethelene can access the upper story, and that means getting the electrical up to code. The whole place may need to be rewired to handle the load; I won’t know until the electrician gets here.

  I hear voices near the front door—Jeff’s light baritone mingling with the deep voice of a man I don’t know—and I shiver just a little. I notice people’s voices, and, Rick Astley being an exception, a big bass like that generally means the man producing it is a good size.

  I like a big man—not that I often get the opportunity to appreciate one in person. I’m not the kind of girl who gets asked out by strangers in bars. Of course, I’m not the kind of girl who really goes to bars, either, but still. I’m not every guy’s dream date.

  I’m a big girl. I’m an inch short of six feet, packing hips and boobs in proportion. I’d squish Rick Astley if I sat on his lap. Come to think of it, I’d probably squish Jeff, and he’s not even that small. It’s not that I’m self-conscious about my size, but—

  Okay. I’m self-conscious about my size. I am, basically, Girl Sasquatch. And so far, I’ve never dated a guy who didn’t feel intimidated by me. I’ve pretty much given up on finding a man who’ll appreciate me for me.

  I take a deep breath and mentally cross my fingers, and then I come into the hall where I can see the guys standing by the front door and get my first look at the electrician.

  Hallelujah.

  Because this is not just a big man. This is a Big, Beautiful Man.

  Really tall, well over six feet. Dark brown hair, a little shaggy and long, but a neatly trimmed beard. Under his t-shirt and carpenter jeans, he is ripped, like he bench-presses cars in his spare time.

  I’m trying not to stare, but I have to practically wrench my eyes away from his abs to be able to step forward and introduce myself.

  “Nice to meet you, Miz Hudson, I’m Mason Peters of Peters Electrical.” He passes my handshake test, with a grip that’s firm and businesslike, yet gentle enough not to crush my fingers. He has good, big, capable hands. Up close his dark-blue eyes have little sparkles. His teeth are very white in his beard when he smiles. I fight off a shiver, but I can’t fight off the heat in my lower belly, because my mind keeps flashing forward to how those big hands would feel on my body.

  He’s gorgeous. I smile back without conscious thought.

  He nods at the bear in my left hand. “Did you bring a colleague?”

  It makes me laugh. “No, Mrs. Harris’s younger boy wanted his lovie. I said I’d bring it to him.”

  Jeff clears his throat. “Looks like Mr. Peters has a good handle on the plans, and he’s going to start digging around and looking at the wiring where we’ve removed some of the 1970s drywall.”

  Hot Electrician nods. “Right. I think this house would’ve been built in, oh, early 1900s maybe?” He looks at me for confirmation.

  Jeff says, “I’ll let you get to it,” and heads off toward the kitchen.

  “Yes, 1912. The house was wired in ‘28 when electricity came to the area,” I say, and then consult my clipboard to check some details. “My research says there was a fairly sizable renovation in ‘76, which involved the wiring, according to the building permit. This time we’re widening the halls and doors, making the bathrooms and kitchen handicap-accessible, and adding the elevator and outside ramp.”

  “House has good bones,” Mason Peters says, looking up at the nine-foot ceilings. “Quality work.”

  You’ve got good bones, I think.

  He looks past me at the wall and laughs in what seems like delight. “Been a long time since I’ve seen those push-button light switches.”

  “Oh, aren’t they cool? I love them.”

  We step over to them and he pushes a button to turn on the light in the entryway. There is a very satisfying clunk, and we both smile. “My mamaw’s house had these. I was fascinated with ‘em as a kid.” He looks down at me and I look up at him, a very satisfying distance of at least six inches. We stand there staring into each other’s eyes for at least ten seconds, long enough for me to start thinking about his good bones and whether I could maybe jump them, and then I jerk myself back into business mode, at least lon
g enough to show him the places where he says he’d like to start investigating the wiring.

  I go back to making sure we have our materials. He’s busy; I’m busy.

  But I can’t stop thinking about him the rest of the day.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mason

  “Hey, tell me if there are any hot chicks on that AmeriShelter project at Miz Harris’s house, okay?” my friend Mac says, chucking a couple of packages of hamburger into his grocery cart.

  “Women,” I remind him, and put a pork roast into mine. “Not chicks. Any female holding a hammer is a woman, dude.”

  “I respect women. But I will point out that just because you’re holding a hammer doesn’t mean you know how to use it.”

  “The hammer might be one of the earliest tools used in civilization,” I point out. “Which means if apes can use them, human females certainly can. Don’t be a dick. Besides, I don’t know why you haven’t volunteered. You’re a contractor.”

  “I was already booked to redo a house for a little old lady in Cleburne,” Mac says. “Handicap bathroom and exterior ramp, should take me two weeks on my own. You’ll be done by then.” He picks up a package of turkey breast. “Think this would be any good on the smoker?”

  “Everything’s good on the smoker. Get it.”

  Mac shrugs and tosses the turkey breast into his cart. “Miz Harris’s house is more’n a hundred years old. Bet you find all kinds of cool stuff in it.”

  “I hope so.”

  And since it would blow my “respect women” stance to admit the truth to Mac—that I’m kind of hoping for a hot chick or two on the AmeriShelter project as well—I keep my mouth shut and I buy my groceries. Moonlight Ridge is pretty great. I grew up half an hour’s drive from here, in a nearby community just as small, but the views are even prettier on the Ridge. Thing is, when you live in a thinly-populated area and you didn’t find a soulmate in high school, the odds of finding your life partner are pretty long. I can wait for Miss Right; I just hope I don’t have to wait too long. I’m thirty, and there’s a lot of life stretching out in front of me. I’d like to spend it with the right woman.

  Two hours after running into Mac at the IGA, I’m hitting my appointment time with the AmeriShelter project and excited about digging around the electrical system of any house this old, and I’ve forgotten my hope for attractive lady volunteers. Fixing up this house is exciting enough. The head contractor says his name is Jeff and starts to show me the blueprints for the redo on the Harris house. Says the on-site coordinator may have more information for me.

  Then she shows up.

  Not a chick, not a female—a woman.

  Her name is Willa Hudson, and she’s the AmeriShelter on-site coordinator. The way Jeff defers to her tells me he respects her, but her no-nonsense air indicates she knows what she’s doing anyway. I like the strong way she shakes hands.

  She’s tall. Statuesque. Any man lucky enough to hold her would have a real armful. I can’t tell what color her hair is under the hard hat, but her eyes are big melty milk-chocolate drops with long lashes, and she’s wearing red lipstick on her full lips. Tough but girly. I like that.

  I like it so much that I have to remind my dick I’m at work.

  She’s carrying a scruffy blue bunny along with a clipboard, and I like that too. Everything about this woman says she’s soft and strong. I tease a little bit about the bunny, and find out that she’s doing a favor for Miz Harris’s younger boy. Lewis is a good kid.

  It’s a good house, too. Needs some love, but it’s been well-maintained. It’s a delight to me to see those old-fashioned push-button light switches, even more so when Willa says she likes them too.

  I’m still interested in finding out what the wiring is like in this old house, but I’m slightly disappointed when it’s time for me to start my estimate of what wiring the house will need, because it means I’ll be in the basement far from Willa.

  By afternoon, I don’t know how to feel. I’m intrigued by the old post-and-tube wiring in the basement, slightly worried about the daisy-chain wiring mess in the kitchen, annoyed that I’ll have to rip all the jerry-rigged mess out, pleased that I’ll get paid for the hours it’ll take, and even more pleased that I may get to spend some of those hours in Willa’s company.

  A little after four, I take my report and go find Willa. She’s on the landline phone, talking about 2x4s for the ramp and not taking any nonsense from whoever’s on the other end, and her competence on top of her beauty turns me on all over again. She ends the call with a brief “thank you,” and then turns to me.

  I can’t help smiling. Her cheeks are rosy from the heated conversation and her eyes are snapping, and she’s just so damn pretty.

  “Whatcha got?” she asks.

  I hand over my written report of materials needed and watch her read it. “I hate to say it, but it needs a full rewiring. The original stuff in the basement was competently done, but the materials are old enough my great-grandpappy could’ve put ‘em in, so they need replacing. Kitchen’s a mess and won’t support modern appliances.”

  “Yeah,” Willa says with a grimace, “Mrs. Harris says she can’t run the microwave and the toaster at the same time or it blows a fuse.”

  I nod. “And that’s another thing: it’s a fusebox. Needs a breaker system to come up to code. Plus that elevator’s gonna take a hell of a lot of power.”

  “We expected that,” she says. “No problem.” She digs in her pocket and finds a business card for the home improvement store in Beckley. “This company is donating 50% of the cost of the electrical for this project, so you can just go get what you need and bill us for the rest, along with your labor.” She holds the card out to me. “Do you have a charge account with them?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Well, this looks fine. Go ahead and start getting your stuff tomorrow, Mr. Peters, and by afternoon we should have enough drywall down that you can start rewiring.”

  “Sounds good, Miz Hudson.”

  “I’m Willa, Mason.” She smiles. The sound of my name in her voice gives me the start of a stiffie, and I remind myself yet again that I’m working.

  On the other hand, it’s nearly time to knock off. And I might as well make it clear I’m interested. “You got dinner plans, Willa?”

  Her cheeks go even redder, and her mouth opens in surprise. “Um. I. Um. I usually spend the first evening writing up my preliminary reports and adding up a projected costs list . . . So no, I guess I’m not available tonight.”

  She sounds disappointed. I sure am. “Maybe another time then.”

  She looks down, then back up. “I’d like that.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Willa

  He asked me out.

  Mason Peters the Hot Tall Electrician asked me out to dinner.

  I try to remind myself that he might just be nice, but the appreciative way he’s been looking at me today tells me it’s a more personal interest.

  OMG.

  I finish up around six p.m., and Jeff and I make our way to the little mom-and-pop hotel in town. Lewis takes his bunny from my arms with a shy smile that tells me exactly how much the small blue lovie was missed. My room’s in a small bungalow separate from the main building, because I like the way the woods close in around the little cottages. “Will you be okay on your own out there?” Jeff asks. He’s in the main building, a couple doors down from the Harris family.

  “I love it. Reminds me of summer camp.”

  “We can grab a quick dinner if you want,” he says, and checks his phone. “I have about half an hour before I’m due to call home and talk to Deanna and the kids.”

  “You go ahead, I’m desperate for a shower. I might go down to that tavern place later.”

  Jeff raises his eyebrows at me. “If you’re sure.”

  I shake my head. “Stop worrying. You’re not my big brother. If it’s rougher inside than it looks, I’ll get my food to go.”

  Jeff goes off to dinner
and I escape to the shower. Afterwards, I dress in a tunic and leggings, shaking my damp hair out over my shoulders and walking a little way down the road to the Moonlight Tavern. It looks like it was a barn in its previous life, maybe: weathered wood, high ceiling. Inside, it’s warm-looking and cozy, women as well as men sitting comfortably in booths or at tables. There’s the smell of beer and other liquor, and the clack of billiard balls, and the sound of conversation. The TV high on the wall near the bar displays a baseball game, and the other walls are plastered with pennants for the WVU Mountaineers and the Pocahontas County Warriors. The lighting is low, but this is not a dive—it’s Cheers, West Virginia style.

  I walk up to the bar. The guy behind it is maybe my age, late-20s. Nice-looking, with a neat beard and a flannel shirt. “Hi,” I say, and perch on the stool. “I heard you do good burgers here.”

  Bartender is handsome, but not really my type. “We do. How would you like yours?”

  My stomach growls. “Medium-well. And the sooner the better.”

  Cute bartender laughs. “I’ll get it started, and come back to get your drink order.”

  He heads off, and I look around some more. The vibe is nice in here. A small group of burly, bearded men are sipping tall beers at a table nearby, and two couples sharing a booth are laughing together. Some younger men are playing pool, and while I’m watching, one of them scoops a woman into his arms and kisses her forehead. There’s Garth Brooks on the speakers, not too loud.

  When the bartender comes back, we discuss my burger (medium-well, light on the ketchup and heavy on the pickles) and my drink. I choose one of the house-brewed ales, and it’s good—bitey and refreshing, nicely balanced.

  Someone sits down on the stool next to me. I turn, but something about the size of the person alerts me before I actually see him: it’s Mason Peters.