And here you go … without further ado … or whatever that expression is … let’s get on with it!

The sledge hammer circled through the air, whipping around Taylor Marsh’s head. Wood splintered. Fragmented pieces shot off like shrapnel.

With another heave, she drew the tool over her shoulder, and with one step, swung with every bit of force she could muster.

Decades-old siding crumpled under her attack of the shed.

A deep breath and a growl preceded the stretch of her arms and the twist of her body as she propelled herself forward again.

The weighted head hit first, yanking the tool from her sweaty palms and throwing Taylor sideways. On an ‘oomph’, her chest, arms and cheek kissed the red clay of southern North Carolina soil.

Taylor pushed up to her elbows, twisted toward the old shed she’d vowed to tear down and sighed. She sat, ran a hand through her failing hair, where blonde streaks had turned brown, and resecured the tail at the nape of her neck as sweat dripped from her brow.

Despite its age, several of the shed’s planks remained standing—a testament to construction of years gone by.

“One old building to go, and it wants to stay upright longer than the Titanic.”

Beyond the mess, her home stood—a white, clapboard bungalow she’d renovated herself.

“Okay. One more time.” With the sun high in the sky and bearing down upon her with the force of the coming summer, she stood. “It’s no bigger than a kid’s play house. This shouldn’t be so hard.”

Taylor positioned her feet at the front corner, spreading them to give herself a wide base. “Right. One hit to the figurative solar plexus.” She nodded as if the pile would respond. The crunch of a car’s wheels on gravel made her turn. She faced the Jaguar as it rolled to a stop.

Two very recognizable men stepped from within the vehicle. Their long strides spoke of power and confidence, the smiles suggested warmth, and the punch one gave the other—playfulness.

Taylor brushed off grime from her jeans, tapped her boots against the ground and wiped a hand across her brow. “Like that’s going to help.” Giving up on her attire, she headed toward them, leaving her pile of work for later. “Hey, Tripp.” She took his extended hand, gazing again at the tattoo on his neck she’d found so intriguing the first time they met. “Ian.” Taylor switched her hand-held welcome toward the man who did more to her libido than anyone she’d ever met.

He held up his hands, palms out, bejeweled right ring finger glinting in the sun.

“Afraid of a little dirt?” She let her true southern come out, even added a bit to the tone as she spun the only ring she owned around her fourth finger—nothing like the ostentatious, gaudy, show-offy thing Ian wore.

“No. But you’re a … more … I got a flight to New York in an hour,” Ian said.

Tripp chuckled. “Why don’t you have a crew come knock that thing down?”

Taylor glanced back at the small shed. “What fun would that be?”

[snip]

Wheeee! What do you think?

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