GENRE: Gay Spicy Romance
LENGTH: 26,495 words
RATING:

This winter finds Kemp Trumble in a pickle along Lake Erie as he attempts to seek out some quiet time to finish writing his next best-selling thriller. Not only does he think the lumberjack next door is loud and annoying, but he also believes the stud alluring, a heavy distraction, and sexy.

Kemp purposely tries to keep his distance from Jack Manwood, knowing they rub each other the wrong way. To no avail, Kemp seems to constantly run into Jack. No matter how much Kemp steers clear of the hot neighbor, Jack is always around, here and there, everywhere.

Unpredictably, these two different men, one from the back woods and one from the city, find common ground: drinks at Timbers, manly hugs, and the annual Lumberjack Competition, which they both attend. But are Kemp and Jack's similarities strong enough to escalate their friendly relationship into boyfriendhood? Or will they remain separated by miles of lumber and broken hearts?

EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.

It happened again the next afternoon. Insidious chopping noises from next door, which kept me from my labor. "Enough!" I yelled, fully irritated, and went to battle.

The autumn wind grazed my cheeks as I walked through the short pathway-a mere ninety feet-of oaks, maples, and pines between my aunt's property and the next door neighbor's. Bundled in a sweater, jeans, and Timberland boots, I trotted towards the disruptive noise.

Chop! Chop! Chop!

In the distance, through the smattering of thin and skeletal woods, a male figure worked in the distance, chopping wood. Upon closer inspection, a change of heart regarding my full-throttled anger, I became dazzled by him, disbelieving my eyes. An unmistakable attraction and interest for the gentleman heightened my senses. He stood approximately at six-four, showcased a blond beard and thick mass of head hair. Jeans clamped to his thick thighs, and sweat clung to his hairy, naked chest. Pointed nipples and a rippled stomach almost caused me to gasp, inebriated by the stranger's good looks. I almost fainted, but didn't. But I did feel log-hard between my legs, alert of the stranger.

Chop! Chop! Chop!

A long piece of timber stretched on the ground in front of him. He swung an axe upwards, over his right shoulder, pivoted its silver blade against the gray afternoon, quickly dropped it forward, and planted it into the oak wood near his feet, creating a V-shape, attempting to chop the twenty-foot trunk into smaller pieces.

Tongue hanging out, eyes wide, and having my balls tingle between my legs, I watched him chop chop! chop! again and again. I must have accidentally moved where he saw me because he stopped his manly exercise. The stranger leaned dropped the ax's blade to the ground and positioned its handle against his left side. Its silver head rested on the crisp earth near his left boot. Cocking his stare in my direction (it was the first time I had seen his piercing and glinting and reflecting Adonis-blue eyes and felt the earth tremble beneath my Trumble legs) and called out to me, "Who's there?"

I said nothing at first, deciding exactly how to respond to his calling. One, I could run back to my aunt's cottage and make myself believe I hadn't witnessed his Herculean and sexy body in action; a total turn-on for me. Two, I could step forward, be a brave neighbor, willed to confront the stud, and introduce myself to the man. Or three, call out to him in a derogatory tone, starting shit with him.

Sadly, I chose option three and hollered in his direction, "None of your business! Who are you?"

He charged me, pounding through the woods. His handsome and muscular bulk moved steadily forward, lumbering quickly.

As the lumberjack pressed forward, heated and angry, fury on his rugged but sexy looking face, baring white teeth pointed like a wild cougar's, shoulders the size of a steel bridge, and meaty legs that pounced over one fallen tree trunk to the next, a little sprits of pee leaked out of my now-limp joint and ran down my right leg, into my shoe.

In defense, realizing my immediate death, I raised both arms and palms in the lumbering bear's direction. "Hold on! There's no need to overreact!"

The big and beautiful stranger stopped approximately six feet in front of me; a blue-glint of fury raged in his eyes. I couldn't take my intoxicated gaze off his sweaty and hairy chest, or his handsome face. Rugged seemed too harsh of a word to describe him since he resembled a beautiful, Hollywood screen star: good cheek bones, pump-pink lips, commercial-worthy hair. But the description sufficed for the time being, before he decided to murder me, probably having the thought of burying me nearby.

Sweat clung to his brow and his sizeable chest heaved. The thick veins in his bar-like arms that crossed over his biceps thumped with blood and testosterone. His eyes flickered an angry blue that reminded me of a wishing well's pool of water following a thunderstorm: spirited, tarnished, alluring, dangerous and evil. The look on his chiseled face clearly explained that he wanted to smash my face in with one of his fists, or both.

The bear didn't touch me, blowing my mind. Rather, he stood over me, huffing, shielding me from the autumn's dull sun that hung behind his head and sprawling back, shadowing my frame. The top of my head barely reached his chin, which clearly defined his height. He ground his teeth together and growled, "What do you want?"

"I'm a best-selling writer and need some quiet. I'm trying to finish my third book. You're chopping is a distraction. I can't write because of you."

"Writer…chopping…distraction," he repeated, shaking his head.

"Good to know you're listening to me." I pointed to his right at the fallen logs behind him. "Any way you can save your lumberjack activity for another day? I'm trying to get through chapter three. Be a pal and give your chopping a break."

"Anyway you can kiss my ass?"

Depends what the ass looked like, I thought. If it looked as desirable as his bare chest, his Hollywood face, and the package between his legs, I might have accomplished more than just a kiss to it. No promises. "You don't have to be crass. Show some manners. I'm not here to ruffle your feathers. I'm simply asking if you will help a writing man out."

"And you don't have to be in my fucking business, city boy. I suggest you spin around and take your candy ass back to your aunt's cottage and stay over there."

Interesting that he knew of my aunt, her cottage, and my candy ass.

"You're overreacting," I told him. "Calm down. I just need some quiet."

He stepped a few feet closer to me and pointed at my chest with an outstretched Octoberfest brat-size finger, but didn't touch me. "And you're trespassing, buddy. I suggest you take your trust fund, faggot ass back where you came from and mind your own business."

Touché. He wasn't in the wrong about my trespassing and obviously had the potential to call the police on me. I didn't want to chance that. No reason to get on the local law's bad side. I backed away, slowly. In doing so my right heel clipped a branch and I began to fall backwards. Both feet slipped out from under me. My arms swirled in circles, attempting balance, which failed. Before I knew it, I plummeted to the woodsy earth, conscious but barely breathing, having had the wind knocked out of me quite suddenly.

"Are you alright?" the stud called out to me, rushed to my side. He knelt on one knee like queer Prince Charming near my right hip, gawked down at me with wide, rushing-blue eyes. "Are you breathing? Are you alive? You hit your head bad."

"I'm fine. Again, you're overreacting," I told him. No lie there. I didn't feel any pain. Not at the rear of my head. Not in my neck or shoulders. Nothing. Just got the wind knocked out of me a touch. Nothing major. Within seconds my breathing became normal and I pushed myself up and off the ground, stood.

The stranger next door helped me up with his hefty arms. One of the plump arms reached around my back and his side met my side. "Damn, you're lucky you didn't break your neck."

"You're getting a little fresh with me, don't you think?" I asked him, feeling his rippled body next to mine: cut and hairy abs, massive bicep, rounded hip.

"Just helping you out. No need to think I'm being frisky."

"Back off," I told him. "I won't let a sexy guy like you put the moves on me. I'm a writer and mean to be single. Besides, lumberjacks aren't my type. Keep your bulky frame away from me."

He pulled away, maybe fearing me. No. The guy had no fear. Not at his size. He tried to smile, but didn't. "You think I'm sexy?"

"Give me a break." I rolled my eyes. "Don't play with me, Mr. Macho. You know you're a sexy lumberjack."

"Since you think I'm sexy, you should know my name."

"I don't think that's necessary. Maybe you're not that sexy." I started to walk away.

He called after me. "Jack! My name is Jack Manwood! And you're that writer ... Kemp Trumble! I know who you are!"

"Whatever," I said and waved an arm and hand behind me and started for my aunt's cottage. "Names aren't important to me."