Christmas Kissed By the Mountain Man (Log Cabin Christmas #13)

CHAPTER ONE

Crew

The mountains rose before me like jagged teeth, snow-capped and unforgiving.

Beautiful in a harsh, brutal way that reminded me of my military deployments—all sharp edges and hidden dangers.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel of my truck as I passed the weathered wooden sign that welcomed me to Lone Mountain, Montana.

Great. A small town full of people who’d want to know my business, ask questions I had no intention of answering, and probably invite me to some community potluck.

What had I gotten myself into?

You owe Race, the voice in my head reminded me. You owe him everything.

The memory hit me like it always did—sharp, visceral, and impossible to ignore. Sand in my mouth, blood on my hands, the deafening crack of gunfire. My leg shattered, bone showing through torn fatigues, and Race’s face above me, grim and determined as he dragged my ass back through hell.

Not leaving you, brother. Not today. Not ever.

He’d carried me two klicks with a bullet in his own shoulder, through enemy fire, refusing to let me go. When the medics finally got to us, I’d been minutes from bleeding out.

So yeah. I owed Race Gentry my life. Which was why, when he’d called a few days ago and said he needed me in Lone Mountain, I’d packed my shit and driven straight through from Colorado.

“I’ve got a friend who needs help,” Race had said, his voice carrying that quiet authority that made you listen. “Their sawmill’s short-handed, and you’re good with your hands, and I trust you. Consider it a favor to me.”

Race hadn’t told me anything else. Then again, Race was a manipulative bastard when he wanted to be. And something in his tone had suggested this wasn’t just about the sawmill.

My phone buzzed on the passenger seat, and Race’s name flashed on the screen.

I ignored it.

The town materialized around me like something out of a Christmas catalog—the kind that showed up in my mailbox every December and went straight into the trash.

Main Street was lined with old-fashioned storefronts, each one dripping with holiday cheer.

Garland wrapped around lamp posts. Wreaths on every door.

Twinkling white lights strung across the street, connecting buildings like a web of forced joy.

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.

Christmas. Everywhere.

I’d spent the last five years making damn sure I was nowhere near civilization when December rolled around. I worked remote jobs, stayed isolated, did whatever it took to avoid the carols and the cookies and the relentless, suffocating cheer.

The last Christmas I’d celebrated, I’d gotten a call in the pre-dawn hours that my best friend—my brother in every way that mattered—had died on a mission I should have been on. That I should have led. Ryan had three kids and a wife who baked the best damn cookies I’d ever tasted.

He’d died three days before Christmas while I was stateside, recovering from the injury that had ended my career.

Merry fucking Christmas.

I white-knuckled the steering wheel and followed the GPS directions to the sawmill. At least there, surrounded by machinery and lumber and work, I could avoid the holiday bullshit.

The sawmill sat at the edge of town, backing up to dense forest. It was bigger than I’d expected—a sprawling complex of buildings, with stacks of lumber arranged in neat rows and the main structure a massive pole barn that had clearly been expanded over the years. Practical. Efficient.

No Christmas decorations.

Thank fuck.

I parked near what looked like the main entrance and killed the engine. For a moment, I just sat there, listening to the tick of cooling metal and the distant whine of machinery.

Get in, do the job, get out. Simple. Race had said a couple of weeks, maybe a month. I could handle a month. Then I’d head back to Colorado, back to my cabin in the woods where no one bothered me and I didn’t have to pretend to be anything other than what I was.

Broken.

The bitter December wind hit me the second I opened the truck door, carrying the sharp scent of pine and sawdust. I’d dressed for it—thermal under my flannel, heavy lined work jacket, boots that had seen me through three deployments and a dozen job sites.

At six-four and two-forty, I’d learned early that I intimidated people just by existing.

The beard I’d grown over the past two years—thick, dark, and shot through with premature gray at forty—didn’t help.

Which was just fine with me. It made it easier to keep people at a distance.

The sound of machinery grew louder as I approached the main building.

It was too cold for the bay doors to be open so I slipped in through the side door.

Inside, I could see the organized chaos of a working sawmill—conveyor belts moving lumber, workers in safety gear manning various stations, sawdust floating through the air like snow.

And then I saw her.

Every thought in my head ground to a halt.

She stood at a table saw, her back to me, operating the machine with the kind of confident precision that came from years of experience.

Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, wisps escaping to curl at her neck.

She wore fitted jeans that hugged curves made for a man’s hand and a green thermal shirt that clung to a body that was all soft femininity despite—or maybe because of—the industrial setting.

She was built like a woman should be built—the kind of curves that made a man’s hands ache to grip and hold.

Full breasts that would overflow my palms, rounded hips made for grabbing, an ass that made my mouth water and my body harden.

Not model-thin or gym-hard, but real. Substantial.

The kind of curves a man could lose himself in.

She shifted her weight, adjusting the board she was cutting, and the movement made those hips sway in a way that shot straight through me.

I could see the concentration on her face.

The way she bit her lower lip as she guided the wood through the blade with steady hands made me want to sooth it with my own.

Those hands. Small, capable, confident. I wondered what they’d feel like on my skin. Wrapped around me. Digging into my shoulders while I was buried inside her. Gripping my hair while I put my mouth between her legs and made her scream.

Stop. Stop right there, I warned my suddenly horn-dogged self.

I forced myself to look away, to take in the rest of the scene.

This was a job. A favor for Race. Nothing more.

It didn’t matter that the woman running the saw was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in.

.. fuck, maybe ever. It didn’t matter that just watching her work was doing things to me that I had no business feeling.

I was here to help, pay my debt, and leave.

That was all.

I took a step forward, my boot scuffing against concrete, and the sound must have carried over the machinery because she turned.

And I got my first full look at her face.

Fuck me.

If her body had been a sucker punch, her face was a knockout blow.

She was younger than I’d thought—late twenties, maybe thirty at most. Ten years younger than me, easy. Her face was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and a mouth that was full and pink and currently pressed into a line of concentration. But it was her eyes that got me.

Green. Not just green—the deep, rich green of pine trees against snow. Framed by dark lashes and sharp with intelligence.

Those eyes locked on me, and I swear to God, I felt it like a physical touch.

She startled, her hands jerking on the board. The saw blade caught wrong, and the wood kicked back with a violent snap. She stumbled, off-balance, and my body moved before my brain caught up.

I was across the space in three strides, catching her around the waist with one arm while my other hand slammed the emergency stop on the saw. The blade whined to a stop, and suddenly the only sound was our breathing and the thundering of my pulse in my ears.

She was pressed against my chest, soft and warm and smelling like sawdust and something sweet—vanilla, maybe, or honey.

Her hands had grabbed my forearms, fingers digging into muscle through my jacket, and I could feel every curve of her body against mine.

There was no hiding my reaction. Not with her body molded to mine.

I cursed again. She was perfect. Soft where I was hard, curves fitting against me perfectly.

The top of her head barely reached my shoulder, making me feel even bigger, more aware of the size difference between us.

Her breath came in little gasps that made her breasts rise and fall against my chest, each inhale pressing those soft curves tighter against me until I had to lock every muscle to keep from grinding into her.

From showing her exactly what she did to me.

And what I wanted to do to her. I wanted to sling her over my shoulder and carry her away. Back to my cabin, where I could enjoy her for days. Hell, for eternity.

It took every ounce of control I’d built over the years to keep from pulling her closer, from sliding my hand up to cup one of those perfect breasts, from finding out if her mouth tasted as good as it looked.

She tilted her head back to look up at me, eyes wide, and I saw the moment awareness of the state of my body hit her.

Yeah. She felt it. My hard-on. It was a rare occurrence for me these days. I left women where they belong—away from me.

“Who are you?” Her voice was breathless but sharp, with an edge that suggested she didn’t appreciate being caught off-guard. “And why are you in my sawmill?”

My sawmill.

Well, fuck Race. Of course, his friend who needed help would be a woman. This curvy, gorgeous, competent woman who’d nearly had an accident because I’d startled her.

This was going to be a problem.

I made myself step back, made myself let go of her even though every instinct screamed to keep her close. My hands felt empty without her waist beneath them.

“I’m Crew. Race sent me.”

Something shifted in her expression—surprise, then understanding, then something that looked almost like embarrassment. “He did?”

“He said you needed help at the sawmill.” I kept my eyes on her face, refusing to let them drop to her body again no matter how much I wanted to. “I owe him.”

She straightened, brushing sawdust from her jeans in a gesture that drew my attention exactly where I didn’t want it to go. To her thick thighs and wide hips. When I forced my gaze back up, she was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.

“I didn’t ask for help,” she said, and there was pride in every word. Defensive pride, the kind that came from having to prove yourself over and over again. “I’ve been running this mill for years. I don’t need—”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t handle it.” I cut her off, keeping my tone neutral. “I was told you needed help. There’s a difference.”

Her jaw set, and those green eyes flashed with something that looked like temper. God help me, it was attractive. Everything about her was attractive—the defiance in her stance, the competence in her hands, the curves that wouldn’t quit.

Fuck Race Gentry, I cursed to myself again.

“And Race sent you?” She crossed her arms under her breasts, and I had to work very hard not to stare at the way the motion pushed them up. “Why?”

“Because I owe him my life, and when Race Gentry calls in a favor, you show up.” I held her gaze, letting her see I meant it. “So I’m here. You can use the help or not, but I’m not leaving until Race says the debt’s paid.”

We stared at each other, tension crackling between us like static electricity. I could see her weighing her options, pride warring with practicality. I saw the moment practicality won.

“Fine.” The word came out clipped, grudging. “But I’m the boss here. This is my mill, my rules. You follow my lead, do what I tell you, and don’t question me in front of the men. Understood?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, ma’am.”

Her eyes narrowed at the ma’am, and I bit back what passed as a smile for me these days. No doubt the ma’am had rankled. I hadn’t meant to make her feel dismissed or patronized. It was habit I couldn’t break.

“I’m Charlotte,” she said, sticking out her hand. “Charlotte Adams.”

I took her hand, and a jolt tore through me. Her hand was small in mine, callused from work, and warm. So damn warm. I shook once—firm, professional—and let go before I could do something stupid like hold on too long.

“Crew.”

“Just Crew?” One dark eyebrow arched. “No last name?”

“Crew Crawford.”

She studied me for a moment longer, and I had the uncomfortable feeling she was seeing more than I wanted her to. Then she nodded and turned away, giving me a view of that ass again.

I was definitely, absolutely, completely fucked.

“Come on then,” she called over her shoulder. “Let me show you around. And Crew?” She glanced back, and there was challenge in those green eyes. “Try not to sneak up on me again. I’d hate to have to explain to Race why his favor sent me to the hospital.”

Despite myself, despite everything, I felt my lips twitch. “Yes, ma’am.”

The look she shot me could have melted steel.

Yeah. This was going to be one hell of a long couple of weeks.