Where The Blacktop Ends

Chapter Eight

It started on a Tuesday morning, three weeks after she'd arrived.

Ivy was working in the back room, sorting through boxes of books that had arrived the day before. The morning sun streamed through the windows, turning the dust motes into gold, and she was humming along to the radio—some old country song about heartbreak and whiskey.

Then the hair on the back of her neck prickled.

The sensation was immediate and visceral—like ice water down her spine, like someone had reached out and touched her without permission. Her hands stilled on the book she was holding, her breath catching.

Someone was watching her.

Ivy turned slowly, her heart suddenly pounding. The back window faced the forest, and through the glass, she could see trees and shadows and morning light filtering through the leaves. Nothing moved. No figure stood in the tree line. But the feeling didn't go away.

It intensified.

She walked to the window, her footsteps echoing in the empty room. The forest was dense here, the underbrush thick with kudzu and wild rhododendron. She couldn't see more than twenty feet into the trees. But somewhere in that darkness, she felt eyes on her.

Watching.

Assessing.

Deciding.

"You're being paranoid," she whispered to herself. "Nobody's watching you."

But her body knew better. Her instincts—honed by years of monitoring Preston's moods, of reading danger in the set of his shoulders—were screaming that she wasn't alone.

She went back to work, but the feeling persisted. Every time she passed that back window, she found herself looking out, searching the tree line for movement. Her skin felt too tight, her nerves too exposed.

At lunch, she walked to the diner, grateful for the noise and people and normalcy. But even there, she couldn't shake the sensation of being observed.

At lunch, she walked to the diner, grateful for the noise and people and normalcy. But even there, she couldn't shake the sensation of being observed.

"You look spooked," Darlene said, sliding a plate of chicken salad across the counter. "What's wrong?"

"This is going to sound crazy," Ivy said quietly, "but I think someone's been watching my building. From the woods."

The diner went quiet.

Every head turned toward her.

"What makes you think that?" Hank asked, his pipe forgotten in his hand.

"Just a feeling. Like someone's out there."

The men exchanged glances. One of them, a grizzled man with a gray beard, cleared his throat. "You been seeing anyone? Hearing anything unusual?"

"No. Just... a feeling."

"That'd be the Grangers," another man said. "They watch their property line real close. Your building backs right up to their land. They're probably just making sure you ain't causing trouble."

"I'm not causing any trouble. I'm just opening a bookstore."

"They don't know that yet. Give 'em time. Once they figure out you're harmless, they'll leave you alone."

But Darlene was frowning. "Which Granger you think it is, Hank?"

The bearded man shrugged. "Could be any of them. But if I had to guess? Probably Boone. He's the quiet one, does a lot of the property patrol. Keeps to himself mostly. Watches more than he talks."

"Boone," Ivy repeated. The name felt strange in her mouth, heavy with meaning she didn't understand yet.

"Yeah. Big guy, covered in tattoos, got a scar across his face. Looks mean as hell, but he's harmless unless you cross him." Hank took a sip of coffee. "He's the one who don't talk much. Just watches. Studies people like he's figuring out a puzzle."

Ivy's stomach did something complicated. "Should I be worried?"

"Nah. Like I said, once they figure out you're not a threat, they'll back off. The Grangers are protective, not crazy. They just don't trust outsiders. And Boone especially—he's territorial. Possessive. Once he decides something's his to protect, he don't let it go."

That afternoon, Ivy couldn't stop thinking about it. About someone named Boone watching her from the woods. About a man covered in tattoos and scars, silent and observant, tracking her movements like prey.

She should be frightened.

Instead, she felt something else entirely. Something that made her pulse quicken and her skin feel too warm, something that reminded her she was alive in a way she hadn't felt in years.

*Stop it,* she told herself firmly. *You just escaped one controlling man. You don't need another one, especially not some mountain man who thinks he owns everything he looks at.*

But when she returned to the building and felt that prickling awareness again—stronger now, more insistent—she found herself moving to the back window deliberately.

The forest was still. No movement. No sound except the distant call of a crow.

But he was there. She knew it with absolute certainty.

"I know you're out there," she said quietly to the empty trees. "And I'm not afraid of you."

It was a lie, but a good one.

The gifts started appearing two days later.

Ivy arrived at the building Thursday morning to find a neat stack of firewood beside her back door. Split, seasoned wood, enough to last through the winter. It hadn't been there when she'd locked up the night before.

She walked slowly around the stack, her heart pounding. The wood was good quality—oak and hickory, split with precision, stacked with care. There was no note, no indication of who'd left it.

But she knew.

She looked toward the forest, toward the invisible line where Granger land began.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

The forest didn't answer. But somewhere in those trees, she felt him listening.

Friday morning brought a box of nails on her doorstep. The exact size she needed for the trim work she was doing. She hadn't told anyone what size nails she needed.

Saturday, a can of wood stain appeared—the exact color she'd been planning to buy in Knoxville. It sat on the counter inside the building, which meant someone had come in while she was gone.

Someone had a key. Or knew how to pick locks.

The thought should have terrified her. Instead, it made her feel... protected. Watched over. Like someone was paying attention to what she needed before she even asked.

Sunday brought coffee beans—expensive, good quality, the kind she'd been drinking in Charleston. They sat beside her coffee maker with no note, no explanation.

Monday, she found a new lock for her back door, still in the package, sitting on the steps. The old lock had been sticking, and she'd mentioned it to Earl in passing.

Someone was listening. Watching. Providing.

The townspeople noticed.

"The Grangers are looking after you," Opal said one afternoon, stopping by with a basket of fresh vegetables from her garden. "That's a good sign. Means they've decided you're worth protecting."

"I don't need protecting."

"Honey, everyone needs protecting. And the Grangers are good at it. Especially Boone—he's the most protective of all of them. Once he decides someone's his responsibility, he don't let anything happen to them. Ever." Opal's expression grew serious. "Just be grateful. And don't ask too many questions. Mountain men don't like explaining themselves."

But Ivy was full of questions. Who was this man who watched from the shadows and left gifts like a ghost? What did he look like up close? What did his voice sound like? Why did the thought of him make her pulse race and her skin feel electric?

She was working late one evening, painting the last section of trim, when she heard it:

Footsteps on the roof.

Ivy froze, paintbrush in hand, her heart suddenly hammering. The footsteps were heavy, deliberate, moving across the old shingles with surprising grace. Then came the sound of tools—hammering, the scrape of metal on wood, the creak of someone moving carefully across aged timber.

Someone was on her roof.

She should be scared. Should call for help. Should do something other than stand here with paint dripping from her brush onto the floor.

Instead, Ivy set down her paintbrush with trembling hands, walked outside into the cooling evening air, and looked up.

A man crouched on the peak of the roof, silhouetted against the darkening sky. He was massive—easily six-three or six-four, with shoulders that seemed to span half the roof. Even from this distance, she could see the dark marks covering his arms, intricate patterns that could only be tattoos. His movements were efficient, controlled, the movements of someone who'd done this kind of work a thousand times.

"Hello?" she called up, her voice steadier than she felt.

The man went still. Completely, utterly still, like a predator that had just sensed prey. For a long moment, he didn't move, didn't acknowledge her. The silence stretched, heavy with tension.

Then, slowly, he turned his head.

Even in the fading light, Ivy could see the scar—a thick, pale line that ran from his left temple down across his cheek to his jaw, bisecting his face like a lightning strike. His face was hard, all sharp angles and rough edges, with a strong jaw shadowed by stubble and dark eyes that seemed to see straight through her.

He was terrifying.

He was beautiful.

"You're Boone," she said.