Woodland Heat

  An Unconventional Men's Romance

  Noah Layton

  Copyright 2026 Noah Layton

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

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. All characters in this book are aged 21 or over.

  Contents

  Chapter 1 - The High Life

  Chapter 2 - If Memory Serves

  Chapter 3 - Take What You can

  Chapter 4 - Holiday Cabins

  Chapter 5 - Cabin Neighbors

  Chapter 6 - The Team

  Chapter 7 - Sasha

  Chapter 8 - Supply Run

  Chapter 9 - Walk in the Woods

  Chapter 10 - Unexpected Guest

  Chapter 11 - All Clear

  Chapter 12 - Cold Water

  Chapter 13 - Mutual Friends

  Chapter 14 - Quiz Night

  Chapter 15 - Fishing

  Chapter 16 - Do We Know Each Other?

  Chapter 17 - Picnic in the Woods

  Chapter 18 - Shelter from the Rain

  Chapter 19 - Finer Details

  Chapter 20 - Distractions

  Chapter 21 - Yard Work

  Chapter 22 - Out in the Cold

  Chapter 23 - Date Night

  Chapter 24 - Helping Hand

  Chapter 25 - Heat Therapy

  Chapter 26 - Cabin Haven

  Chapter 27 - Clear Head

  Chapter 28 - New Client

  Chapter 29 - One More Shift

  Chapter 30 - What The Heart Wants

  Chapter 31 - Something New

  Chapter 32 - By the Fire

  Chapter 33 - Good Morning

  Chapter 34 - Grand Reopening

  Chapter 1

  The High Life

  'And now I'd like to welcome to the stage the man of the evening. Finding my way onto his company's waitlist was a challenge, even for a guy like me. Finding my way onto his personal waitlist? Downright impossible. Nevertheless, here he is, one of the greatest artists of his generation: Jack Holt.'

  The crowd applauded as I stepped up to the stage in my suit. I shook hands with the tuxedo-clad billionaire.

  Guys who made it to his level didn't need to break fingers with their handshakes. Their money said enough.

  But the roughness that my hands possessed spoke enough straight back.

  I moved before the podium and looked out at the crowd of well-dressed men and women seated at their tables on the 28th floor of Moriarty Tower on the Upper East Side.

  This was the last place I desired to be, but over the years these corporate gigs had steadily begun to fill my schedule.

  And with the money these guys were willing to pay for my artisanal services, I was happy to take them on.

  'Thank you very much for those kind words, Mr. Sterling,' I began. 'I'm not often one for speeches, so I'll keep this short. I also know that you're eager for me to stop talking so you can get on with eating the wonderful dinner prepared tonight, so I'll keep it even shorter.'

  A wave of laughter from the crowd. That one always worked.

  'Despite what Mr. Sterling said, I don't consider myself an artist. Never have. I've always crafted exactly what I've been asked to craft, no more, no less. Maybe some would call that selling out, but I don't. It's a job - somebody asks me to build something, and I build it. Somebody asks me to carve, and I carve. With that said, I hope this piece is very much to your liking.'

  Robbie, my assistant, grabbed the cloth and pulled it from the covered shape nearby.

  The piece was both tasteful and a little clichéd, if I said so myself; a monumental figural sculpture like the pieces that would have been carved out of marble in ancient Rome over many years, but instead cut from wood.

  It depicted a rugged woodcutter with his sleeves rolled up, an axe propped over his shoulder, combined with the elegance of a much more prestigious pose. It had taken a lot less time than three years thanks to the tools and technology we had available now, but it had been my hands and my tools doing the carving all the same.

  The crowd loved it.

  Sterling returned to my side and leaned into the mic as applause washed over the room.

  'How did he even get this thing in here, huh?' He laughed, continuing his applause.

  'With great difficulty,' I smiled.

  'I'll bet. Now I just need to make sure I keep up the maintenance payments. What do those look like?'

  'For a guy like you?' I replied. 'I'm sure you'll manage.'

  Another round of laughter as Sterling shook hands with me again.

  I crossed to Robbie and ducked out of the way.

  'Nice work,' I smiled, patting him on the arm. 'Get you a drink?'

  'After the payday from this job, you sure can.'

  I ordered a pair of old-fashioneds at the bar and looked about the place while the bartender prepped the drinks. Waiters and waitresses so smartly-dressed that they could have been guests themselves moved among the tables, refilling wine glasses and serving entrees at the $1000-per-seat party.

  'There's no prices on this menu,' Robbie spoke from my side as he examined it, uncomfortably adjusting his tie, 'That tells me you're screwed.'

  'There's no prices because it's an open bar,' I smiled, thanking the bartender as the drinks arrived.

  'It is? Why didn't you mention that before?'

  'Because I knew you would react like this.'

  The drinks landed in front of us. We knocked them together and took a sip.

  'They probably use the same bourbon they sell at the corner bodega I picked up some chips from a few hours ago,' Robbie spoke. 'If they do, they fooled me, because that is a damn good drink.'

  'The setting might be making it taste better than it does,' I laughed.

  'I'll bet it invites other thoughts, too.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Do I really need to tell you that half of the women in here are still checking you out?'

  'And the other half are more than happy to settle for my talented assistant,' I smiled. 'Besides, you know I'm not about that.'

  'About what?' He chuckled. 'Having a good time?'

  'Married women,' I replied, shaking my head. 'Not the life for me.'

  'I'm sure there are plenty of unmarried women here.'

  'I had plenty of fun years ago. These days I'm looking for more of a connection than a one-night-stand.'

  'Or connections, for a guy like you.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Come on. Rich, handsome, successful, good with his hands. Plus the well-calculated amount of beard is doing you plenty of favors. And I'm not just saying all of this because you're my boss. You're ticking a lot of boxes. I'll bet a few ladies would be more than content to share you.'

  'Okay, no more booze for you,' I smiled.

  'Actually, those hands of yours might not be ideal. Maybe go get yourself some moisturizer.'

  'I'm going,' I laughed, 'Don't make an ass out of yourself. You know that's my only rule.'

  'I promise,' he grinned, holding his hands up in a don't-shoot motion.

  I showed my face about the place for just a few more minutes, enjoying my drink before taking the opportunity to slip away to my suite a few floors up.

  The door closed, and the silence was golden.

  Showing off my work was a part of the job that I enjoyed, but I could only handle these big city events for so long. It had always been in my blood to embrace the quiet of a smaller town.

  It had happened by accident; increasingly the wealthy and famous had begun to make orders for my sculptures.

  My company was originally founded with the purpose of crafting elaborate entranceways and ceiling art for mansions, but on the side, I had always worked on bespoke pieces in the form of wooden statues. Over time, they had picked up something of a reputation.

  Combine that with the fact that we had a long waitlist, and the wealthy started to see the company's sculptures as sought-after artwork that was near-impossible to acquire.

  Cue higher and higher prices, an even longer waitlist, and enough money flowing my way to retire comfortably, which is where I was right now.

  But retirement wasn't for me just yet. I enjoyed my work too much.

  I poured myself a glass of water and headed outside to the balcony overlooking Central Park. The vague hum of the city and the smell of fumes and grass found their way up here easily.

  Just like a drink, I enjoyed the city in moderation. It had been a three-hour drive from the Hudson Valley where my headquarters resided to the city, a hundred miles of taking it slow with the sculpture tied down in the back of an 18-wheeler and surrounded by so much cushioning material that it could have probably absorbed some of the smaller local lakes.

  I led the wagon every step of the way in my truck, while Robbie followed it close behind in one from the company.

  Some would call it overkill, but with this kind of client and this kind of payday
, not to mention the weeks I had put into perfecting this thing right down to the pores on its wooden face, I wasn't going to take any chances.

  And the hard work had paid off, $500,000 worth of it, plus quarterly $10,000 payments for regular maintenance to ensure it lasted as the centerpiece of the billionaire's company lobby.

  As for my own business, these days I barely had a hand in the day-to-day running of things, even though I was still the owner. The only times I ever set my hands on a trunk were if it was a sculpture request, or if I was chopping one down in the patch of forest we owned right behind our headquarters.

  We were a small operation compared to these guys, with only a dozen employees on the roster, but I liked that. The company was paid well, so my team were paid well. They were good people, and they deserved it.

  I took a few minutes to admire the skyline of this iron jungle before returning inside and pulling off my tie. I was about to take a shower when a message alert pulled me back to my phone.

  Robbie had let the company's group chat know that everything had gone smoothly, and messages of congratulations were flowing in, including a picture of the rest of the team raising their glasses back at the headquarters, led by Clara, my trusty Chief of Everything.

  Seriously, if she wasn't around, the place would fall apart within days.

  Me: Is that my whisky?

  Clara: One of the cheaper bottles, sure.

  Me: So yes.

  Clara: Even the cheap stuff is good.

  Me: Enjoy it before Robbie gets jealous.

  I smiled, closed my messages and switched to my emails. The contact details for our personalized requests account were difficult to find. Making the guys who were willing to pay top dollar work harder to find it was all part of the game.

  I scrolled through the requests. A dozen had flooded in tonight alone, brought about by the presentation downstairs, all coming from assistants to people famous enough to have their own Wikipedia profiles.

  I forwarded them all to Robbie to deal with tomorrow. The guy knew when to have fun, but he was also one hell of a worker.

  But there, buried at the bottom of the list, was one that didn't belong.

  Subject: Service Request - Cinder’s Ridge - Can you help?

  I froze up, staring down at the subject line and reading it back again to make sure I was looking at it right.

  Cinder's Ridge. I hadn't been back to that place in a very long time.

  I was about to delete the email when I saw the sender.

  Sienna Quinn. Back when I had lived there, she was the prettiest, most desirable woman in town.

  And now she was emailing me, asking for my help.

  Chapter 2

  If Memory Serves

  I slept in the next morning and ordered the works via room service for breakfast: bacon, sausage, eggs, hash browns, a stack of toast and a cafetiere filled with fresh coffee. The morning news played idly in the background as I sat in my robe, freshly-showered and moisturized.

  Truth be told, I did take care of my hands more than I would let Robbie or any of my crew back at our headquarters know. I had for as long as I could remember - the roughness came about faster than I imagined when I first started out as a woodsman all those years ago.

  I finished up my breakfast and pulled up my emails again, staring at the name of the town.

  I had left Cinder’s Ridge 20 years ago, shortly after dropping out of the nearby college in Holloway one town over. It was the place where I had spent my earlier years, and even though the bustling town with its lakes, forests and rivers had always had a place in my heart, I didn't attach anything good to the rest of it.

  Academia had never been my strong point, though back then my bed-ridden uncle had always stressed the importance of studying, going to college and using it as a means to build myself into a better person.

  He had been a good man; it was his patch of land in the woods back in Cinder's Ridge I had lived upon all those years ago after my parents' passing.

  Back then I had had to work harder than my peers just to be average. To excel beyond that had taken more late nights studying than I could count, but I managed it.

  And what did I find during my first week in college? More sitting at desks in front of pieces of paper, being told that all of this mattered, while my rich peers from out of town could enjoy their time off, and I was scraping together what I could.

  Crawl out of one pit, fall into another.

  So I left and didn't look back. I didn't like who the world was trying to make me become, and I resolved to turn myself into somebody that I did, a version of myself that wasn't crafted by the things around me.

  That said, woodcutting didn't seem like it would lead anywhere at the time. I was swinging an axe for 10 hours a day, stacking firewood and eventually lumber for a company in the state.

  But after honing my skills and steadily building things up at my own pace, here I was, in a place I never thought I'd reach, and yet somehow staring at an email with the name of that old town in its subject line.

  Deleting it would take nothing more than a swipe of my finger.

  But deep down I knew that the curiosity of what it was about would play on my mind.

  I tapped the email and read it back.

  Dear Jack,

  I don't know if you remember me or not, but the email address probably gives it away. My name is Sienna Quinn, and I'm part of the town planning board in Cinder’s Ridge. We're experiencing some trouble as of late, specifically with an oak tree in the local forest.

  I know that you're originally from Cinder’s Ridge, so I won't patronize you by explaining the history of the 'rigid oak' seeing as you probably already know all about it. The only thing you may not know is that it's still considered a town landmark of great importance, both historically and with the locals.

  I'm getting in contact to ask if you would be able to visit Cinder's Ridge in the near future and take a look at the tree. After doing some research into your business, I imagine that you're a very busy man, and it's not my intention to pluck on your heartstrings - we would be glad to pay you for your services, even if you only have time to see us briefly.

  If you're available, I would be incredibly grateful.

  Kind regards,

  Ms. Sienna Quinn

  Town Planning Board

  I read the email back a few times. I appreciated Sienna not trying to take advantage of me. At least she had been upfront about that.

  It was safe to say that I was a nobody back then, insofar that a woman like Sienna Quinn probably didn't even know that I existed.

  In fact, I was more confident of anything than I had been in a while that Sienna couldn't remember me at all, and was just inviting me back because she had seen an opportunity after finding my name during an internet search.

  Even though I had only spent a few months at the college in Holloway all those years ago, she was impossible to forget; crowds practically parted for her wherever she went. She could have had the whole world at her feet, and for some reason she was still there in the small town of Cinder's Ridge.

  And now she was emailing me about this tree, of all things. The Rigid Oak.

  It was the official name for a towering, centuries-old oak tree in the forest at the edge of town. The name had been given in the 1800s, back when rigid had much fewer connotations.

  Cinder’s Ridge was only a four-hour drive from the Valley. I could drop by and at least take a look.

  I composed a response and sent it.

  Dear Ms. Quinn,

  I'm heading back from the city this morning. I'll make a detour and stop by the town to take a look, but due to my busy schedule, I can't make any promises about a commitment to helping you. I'll be there by 2pm.

  -Jack Holt

  Maybe this was a big mistake, but there was no sense in being rude for the sake of it. Worst case scenario, I would waste a few hours letting them know the oak was screwed and that it would be better to just chop the thing down.

  Best case scenario... I didn't know what that looked like.

  ***

  The drive back north went without a hitch. I told Robbie to head back to our headquarters while I journeyed further eastward, passing the Hudson Valley and venturing along the remote forest roads that weaved towards Cinder’s Ridge.

  The town's banner held the name, sprawling over the road on a wooden display just before the first sparsely-scattered wooden homes came into view. I reached Main Street and let up on the gas, taking it slow as I surveyed the shops and bakeries, the coffee houses and the clothing stores. Elm trees planted long ago lined the sidewalk, flanking this old world like soldiers as they held off the threat of modern chrome and glass.