Read Online Forward Passes (Seattle Lumberjacks) by Jami Davenport - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jami Davenport
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His dick seemed to be the only part of him still alive and functioning as normal. Cold showers were becoming the norm, and not just because the hot water heater proved to be flakier than the furnace.
Tyler needed a release from sexual deprivation and boredom, or he’d go crazy. Despite his many faults, lazy wasn’t one of them. He’d never been one to sit on his ass for long. Looking around at the once grand mansion, he made a decision. If he couldn’t rely on the workers, he’d start the renovation process himself. Using the same obsessive zeal he’d once applied to dissecting an opponent’s defense, Tyler funneled his pent-up energy toward rectifying the mansion’s state of disrepair.
After a trip to town for supplies, he started hand sanding the rail on the oak banister. The chore required infinite patience and days of rubbing, but hell, time happened to be something he possessed in spades for the next couple months.
Cougar sat nearby, a couple steps up, as if Tyler needed supervision. The cat alternated between licking his ass and overseeing Tyler’s progress.
A few hours later, Tyler’s back hurt like hell, his knees started to give out, and dust filled his nostrils. Tired of crouching on the stairs, he stood and stretched his cramped muscles. His gaze swept around the grand entryway, taking in the one-of-a-kind woodwork and funky interior of the old mansion. Standing back, he admired his work, and it was work, countless hours of painstaking sanding in all the crevices and corners. One of the previous inhabitants of the place, probably Uncle Art, had painted the rooms some bizarre colors, including painting this once-elegant banister lime green.
Thank God, the previous inhabitants’ intentions outweighed their ambition. Most of the woodwork hadn’t been desecrated. They’d done plenty of other weird stuff, like ripping out all the master bathroom fixtures and never replacing them, enclosing the back porch with plexi-glass by pounding nails into the siding, and ripping up a three-foot square section of teak flooring in the den.
Tyler smiled in satisfaction as he surveyed his handiwork. The majority of his friends and acquaintances considered him as shallow as a piece of paper, a bona-fide asshole. They’d never buy his appreciation for the details which made this old mansion so special or believe he’d enjoy restoring an old place like this. Of course, he’d prove them right and sell it in the end for a handsome profit, placing the almighty dollar higher than any family legacy. Why was he even bothering with the banister? Too costly to be completely renovated, Twin Cedars would be razed by the next owner and replaced with condos.
A fucking shame, actually. His ancestors probably shook their fists at him from heaven or possibly hell.
Tyler’s great-great-great grandfather, Jackson Harris, built Twin Cedars in the early 1900s as a home for his family. A timber magnate, Harris amassed quite a bit of wealth until he retreated to this island to escape the pressures of his Seattle life. Over the years, the estate stayed in the Harris family’s possession, even though it’d been leased out for various purposes. It’d operated as an inn with a bar, café, and small marina. It’d also served a stint as a Christian retreat, a hotel, and a home to different branches of the Harris clan, including an eccentric spinster aunt who liked to skinny dip in the bay, beat the local good ol’ boys at poker, and scandalize the neighbors. Hell, he’d even heard rumors it’d been a brothel briefly. Maybe that explained the colors.
In the near future, he’d be responsible for erasing a century of family history by reducing this mansion to rubble.
He was no longer sure how he felt about that.
Tyler sank down onto the stairs and rested his hands on his knees. He surveyed the two-story entryway with its huge chandelier. This place had withstood the test of time. Would he? How would he be remembered? What would
Tyler needed a release from sexual deprivation and boredom, or he’d go crazy. Despite his many faults, lazy wasn’t one of them. He’d never been one to sit on his ass for long. Looking around at the once grand mansion, he made a decision. If he couldn’t rely on the workers, he’d start the renovation process himself. Using the same obsessive zeal he’d once applied to dissecting an opponent’s defense, Tyler funneled his pent-up energy toward rectifying the mansion’s state of disrepair.
After a trip to town for supplies, he started hand sanding the rail on the oak banister. The chore required infinite patience and days of rubbing, but hell, time happened to be something he possessed in spades for the next couple months.
Cougar sat nearby, a couple steps up, as if Tyler needed supervision. The cat alternated between licking his ass and overseeing Tyler’s progress.
A few hours later, Tyler’s back hurt like hell, his knees started to give out, and dust filled his nostrils. Tired of crouching on the stairs, he stood and stretched his cramped muscles. His gaze swept around the grand entryway, taking in the one-of-a-kind woodwork and funky interior of the old mansion. Standing back, he admired his work, and it was work, countless hours of painstaking sanding in all the crevices and corners. One of the previous inhabitants of the place, probably Uncle Art, had painted the rooms some bizarre colors, including painting this once-elegant banister lime green.
Thank God, the previous inhabitants’ intentions outweighed their ambition. Most of the woodwork hadn’t been desecrated. They’d done plenty of other weird stuff, like ripping out all the master bathroom fixtures and never replacing them, enclosing the back porch with plexi-glass by pounding nails into the siding, and ripping up a three-foot square section of teak flooring in the den.
Tyler smiled in satisfaction as he surveyed his handiwork. The majority of his friends and acquaintances considered him as shallow as a piece of paper, a bona-fide asshole. They’d never buy his appreciation for the details which made this old mansion so special or believe he’d enjoy restoring an old place like this. Of course, he’d prove them right and sell it in the end for a handsome profit, placing the almighty dollar higher than any family legacy. Why was he even bothering with the banister? Too costly to be completely renovated, Twin Cedars would be razed by the next owner and replaced with condos.
A fucking shame, actually. His ancestors probably shook their fists at him from heaven or possibly hell.
Tyler’s great-great-great grandfather, Jackson Harris, built Twin Cedars in the early 1900s as a home for his family. A timber magnate, Harris amassed quite a bit of wealth until he retreated to this island to escape the pressures of his Seattle life. Over the years, the estate stayed in the Harris family’s possession, even though it’d been leased out for various purposes. It’d operated as an inn with a bar, café, and small marina. It’d also served a stint as a Christian retreat, a hotel, and a home to different branches of the Harris clan, including an eccentric spinster aunt who liked to skinny dip in the bay, beat the local good ol’ boys at poker, and scandalize the neighbors. Hell, he’d even heard rumors it’d been a brothel briefly. Maybe that explained the colors.
In the near future, he’d be responsible for erasing a century of family history by reducing this mansion to rubble.
He was no longer sure how he felt about that.
Tyler sank down onto the stairs and rested his hands on his knees. He surveyed the two-story entryway with its huge chandelier. This place had withstood the test of time. Would he? How would he be remembered? What would
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