Boathouse Heat

The chaos of city life had worn me down to nothing, so I ditched it all for a sleepy mountain town tucked against a glittering lake, far from the concrete jungle I’d called home. Everything here felt like a reset — crisp air, endless skies, unfamiliar faces. Everything, that is, except the bars. No matter how small the town, there’s always a watering hole where the locals spill their secrets and the real stories unfold.

I stumbled across a gem in the town square — a cozy tavern with warm wood paneling, a jukebox that leaned toward bluesy rock, and a crowd that struck the perfect balance of lively and laid-back. It was the kind of place where a whiskey or a latte didn’t just taste better; it felt like it belonged in your hand. I settled in as a regular before I’d even unpacked my last box.

I’m a landscape architect, 36, and I’ve still got enough charm and grit to turn heads when I want to. I’m not shy about chasing what catches my interest, but being the new guy in a tight-knit town puts you at a disadvantage. You’re a curiosity, studied like a specimen under glass, but nobody’s rushing to roll out the welcome mat — or anything more intimate. Still, I kept my eyes open, letting my imagination pick out who might linger in my thoughts after dark. Hookups, though? Those were a pipe dream. The “outsider” doesn’t get far in that department.

Among the faces at the tavern, one woman stole my focus entirely. I’ll confess — my friend Tara ribs me for it — I’ve always been drawn to women with a few more years on them. Younger ones tend to come with too much noise, too many games. But an older woman, often spoken for, carries a kind of quiet hunger, a spark for something raw and real. And they don’t go blabbing about it after.

This woman at the tavern — she was magnetic. She’d glide in every evening at 6:30 sharp, and I’d make sure I had a seat just to watch her arrive. What was it about her? Pure presence. Dark tailored slacks that clung to her athletic legs and sculpted hips, moving like they were made for her. Knee-high leather boots with a subtle heel, polished to a gleam, nothing like the garish sneakers the younger crowd sported. Her sweaters or silk blouses hugged her frame, hinting at a figure that hadn’t lost its edge. Her chestnut hair fell in loose waves, always effortless but perfect. She was sophisticated, probably particular, and miles out of reach for a transplant like me with no roots here.

Her one imperfection? Her eyes. Not that they weren’t striking — deep hazel, sharp with intelligence — but they held a guardedness that didn’t quite match her easy confidence. It threw me off at first, but I let it slide. Perfection’s overrated anyway. So, she became the one I couldn’t shake, the one fueling my restless nights.

I’ve lived long enough to know that sometimes the universe tosses you a curveball just to see what you’ll do with it. And this is where the story takes a turn.

Out of nowhere, I scored a big project — landscaping a series of public gardens for the town, beating out the local old boys’ network who usually had those gigs locked down. If you know anything about these contracts, they’re sealed with layers of bureaucracy. The bigger the budget, the higher up you go to make it official.

And who did I end up meeting to finalize the deal? None other than the town’s mayor — whose wife happened to be the woman I couldn’t stop thinking about.

The mayor, Paul, was a solid guy. He’d held office forever, and you could see why — folksy charm, firm handshake, and just enough integrity to keep the rumors at bay (though I’d bet he pocketed a small slice of the town’s funds, nothing too greedy). He was about 60, while his wife, Nora, looked closer to 45.

At the little mixer after the signing, I got to know them a bit. Nora, it turned out, had been the town’s sweetheart back in her early twenties, crowned at some local festival when Paul was already climbing the political ladder.

My plan was straightforward: don’t rush, don’t push, just get in their good graces. And it worked like a charm. They were warm, I was decent company, and we clicked. They kept tabs on my work at first, checking every move, but I wasn’t about to mess this up.

Since the gardens needed a woman’s touch for the finer details, Nora stepped in as an unofficial advisor, popping by the sites to weigh in. She’d show up without warning, dressed in those sleek outfits, a scarf catching the breeze, sunglasses perched like armor. I’d lose my train of thought, her presence pulling me off balance. At night, I’d replay every glance, every word, letting it fuel my private moments. Sometimes she’d critique my plans with a sharpness that sent a jolt through me; other times, she’d nod approvingly and leave. But she always seemed pleased.

That project became my obsession. I poured everything into it — not just for the paycheck, but because Nora was watching. It paid off. One job led to another, and soon I was flush with cash and contracts. And still utterly alone. No one else held a candle to her. Keeping my fixation under wraps was a battle, especially as Paul and Nora started pulling me closer.