CHAPTER TWO
Charlotte
I stared at the computer screen in my office, the supply order blurring in front of my eyes. I’d read the same line three times now and still had no idea what it said.
Focus, Charlotte.
But I couldn’t. Because all I could think about was him. Crew. Standing in my sawmill like he’d always belonged there, all six-foot-four of solid muscle and quiet intensity.
I’d left him with Dale an hour ago—my most experienced foreman and someone who could show Crew the ropes without me hovering. It was the professional thing to do. The smart thing.
So why did I feel like I was hiding in my office like a coward?
I rubbed my temples, trying to focus on the numbers in front of me. Purchase order for pine lumber. Standard stuff. Routine.
Except my brain kept circling back to this morning. To him. Crew Crawford. He’d appeared like a shadow and now he was here to stay?
I got up to reheat my coffee for the third time. He had to be ex-military if he was a friend of Race’s. The mountain was filled with men Race had helped over the years. Was still helping, apparently.
They usually came here to stay. But Crew was only temporary.
Which made this maddening crush-like emotion I was feeling even more pathetic.
I had never, ever been attracted to a man so fast. Or so damn hard.
Retrieving my coffee, I walked to the window where I could watch the hustle and bustle of the yard.
Three trucks were being loaded, the buzz of the saws filled the air.
I’d been officially in charge of the mill for five years, ever since my parents had semi-retired.
Dad still came around to check up on me, but with the best of intentions.
My brother, bless his blackened heart, had finally pulled his head out of his ass and married my best friend. They’d fallen in love last Christmas when I’d tricked her into decorating his house for Christmas.
A holiday he did not like.
I saw a lone figure walk across the yard. It was Crew. I had a feeling he wasn’t much into Christmas either.
I played back the scene from this morning. He had moved with absolute certainty, catching me like I weighed nothing. He’d held me against him like...
Like what? Like he was attracted to me too?
Yes, he was.
I could answer that question honestly because there had been no doubt about his body’s reaction to having me in his arms. I knew when a man was, um, turned on.
And apparently that knowledge makes you a giddy idiot, I thought, taking a sip of lukewarm coffee.
I’d dated. Not extensively—running a sawmill didn’t leave much time for romance, and the dating pool in Lone Mountain was more like a dating puddle. But I’d had boyfriends. I’d had sex. I was a normal, functioning adult woman with normal, functioning adult hormones.
Maybe it was the timing. Christmas made people weird. Last year at this exact time, I’d watched my big brother fall stupid-in-love with my best friend, and something about witnessing that had made me... aware. Of my own life. Of what I was missing.
Or maybe you’re just really, really attracted to him, my brain supplied helpfully.
“Oh, shut up,” I muttered.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d filled the doorway of the mill—broad shoulders, muscled frame. His dark eyes had assessed everything with military precision before landing on me with an intensity that had made my knees weak.
I remembered how big he was—and how small I’d felt in his arms.
I’d dated tall guys before. My ex had been six-one.
But Crew was different. He didn’t just have height—he had mass.
Presence. Solid muscle that looked like it could pin me down and hold me exactly where he wanted me.
Arms thick enough to lift me without effort.
Hands that could span my waist, cup my breasts, grip my hips hard enough to leave marks.
And that beard. Thick and dark with silver threading through it, making him look dangerous and experienced. I wondered what it would feel like against my skin. Would it be soft or scratchy? Would it scrape deliciously against my inner thighs when he—
Heat flooded through me at the thought, and I shifted in my chair, trying to ease the building tension.
Jesus, Charlotte. You’re at work. At your sawmill. Maybe try to maintain some dignity?
But my body wasn’t listening to reason. My nipples were hard against my bra, aching. Between my legs, I was wet—so wet I could feel it. My body was screaming for release, for his hands, for his mouth.
Professional, I reminded myself firmly. You have a rule. No dating employees. And he’s temporary anyway. Here for a few weeks, then gone.
Also, he’d called me ma’am. Twice.
I was thirty-two, not eighty-two.
Although, looking at him, he was probably older than me. Early forties, maybe? Hard to tell with the general growly demeanor he had going on.
I forced my attention back to the lumber order, writing out a ticket. I had a business to run. Custom orders to fill. A crew to manage. I couldn’t afford to turn into a puddle of hormones just because Race Gentry had sent me an early Christmas present wrapped in flannel and bad attitude.
Except Crew hadn’t seemed like he had a bad attitude. Just... quiet. Guarded. Like a man who’d learned to keep everything locked down tight.
The walkie-talkie on my desk crackled to life.
“Boss, you got a minute?” Dale’s voice came through. “I need you to look at something with the custom order. Your new guy has some questions about the specs.”
My heart did an annoying little skip at the mention of Crew. And lower, my body clenched with want.
Get yourself together, I told myself sternly. You’re the boss. Act like it.
I grabbed the walkie. “Be right there.”
I stood, smoothing down my flannel shirt and brushing sawdust off my jeans. Time to be professional. Time to be the boss, not the woman having extremely inappropriate thoughts about a certain grumpy ex-soldier.
You can do this. Just don’t stare at his forearms. Or his hands. Or that beard. Or—okay, maybe just don’t look at him at all.
Great plan, Charlotte. Very professional.
The main floor was busy, the usual hum of machinery and voices filling the space. I made my way to the specialty section, where Dale and Crew were bent over a set of notes and wood samples spread across the workbench. Crew looked up as I approached, and those dark eyes locked on mine.
He was covered in sawdust—in his hair, on his shoulders, dusting his forearms where he’d rolled up his sleeves.
And sweet heavens above, those forearms. Thick with muscle, corded with veins, dusted with dark hair. I wanted to brush the sawdust off him. Feel those muscles under my hands.
So much for not looking at the forearms.
“What’s up?” I asked, forcing myself to focus on Dale instead of the way Crew’s shirt stretched across his broad chest. Instead of wondering what that chest looked like bare. If he had hair there. Scars. If his skin would be hot under my hands.
“The client wants crown molding to match these existing pieces,” Dale explained, gesturing to some wood samples and notes. “But the notes are a bit unclear on the profile. Crew noticed the measurements don’t quite line up with the samples.”
I moved closer to look at the notes, very aware that Crew hadn’t moved. That put us shoulder to shoulder—or rather, my shoulder to his bicep, given the height difference.
Even just standing next to him was overwhelming. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell the sawdust and a faint hint of something else. Soap, maybe. Or just... him.
“Good catch.” I cleared my throat. “You’re right, these dimensions are off. We’ll need to call the client and clarify before we start cutting.”
“That’s what I figured,” Crew said, his voice that low rumble that seemed to vibrate through my chest and settle lower. Much lower. “Didn’t want to waste material on a guess.”
I glanced up at him, surprised—and immediately regretted it.
Because this close, I could see the darker flecks in his eyes and that there was more silver than I’d first thought threading through his beard.
I couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze dropped to my lips for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
And that look. That quick, hungry look sent heat flooding through me.
Did he feel it too? This pull, this attraction between us?
Or are you so desperately horny that you’re imagining things?
Probably the second one. That seemed more likely.
“You’ve done this before,” I managed, trying to focus on the work and not on how badly I wanted to feel that beard against my skin. “Custom millwork.”
It wasn’t a question, but he nodded anyway. “Built custom furniture and cabinets before I enlisted. Clients always think they know what they want until you show them the mock-up.”
A smile tugged at my lips despite myself. “Truth.”
His eyes focused on my mouth when I smiled and it made me acutely aware of every inch of my body.
“Okay, I’ll call them now and get clarification,” I said quickly, needing distance before I did something monumentally stupid.
“In the meantime—” I turned to Dale, grateful for the excuse to look away from those too-knowing eyes “—can you show him the Johnson project? That’s straightforward enough while we wait. ”
“You got it, boss.” Dale grabbed the relevant paperwork and headed toward another workstation.
Crew didn’t follow immediately. He stood there, looking down at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Dark. Intense. His jaw working like he was fighting with himself about something.
“Something else?” I asked, proud that my voice came out steady despite the way my heart was racing.
His gaze traveled over my face slowly, thoroughly, and I felt it like a caress. Felt it in the sudden awareness of how small I felt next to him. How easily those big hands could lift me, hold me exactly where he wanted me.
Then he just shook his head. “No. Nothing.”
But the way he was looking at me—like he was imagining peeling off my clothes, like he was fighting the same attraction I was—suggested there was definitely something. Something he wasn’t going to say.
Or you’re projecting again. That’s also a strong possibility.
We stood there for a beat too long, the air between us charged with tension. Around us, the sawmill hummed with activity, but it felt like we were in our own bubble. A bubble where nothing existed except the pull between us, the want, the need.
I could see his pulse beating at his throat, could see the way his hands had fisted at his sides like he was stopping himself from reaching for me. Or maybe I was just projecting. Maybe I wanted him to feel this attraction so badly that I was seeing things that weren’t there.
God, I wanted him to reach for me. I wanted to feel those calloused hands on my skin. I wanted to know if they’d be gentle or rough. I wanted him to shove everything off that workbench, bend me over it, yank down my jeans, and—
Where did that come from?
I was the good girl. The responsible one. The one who always did the right thing, followed the rules, kept everything professional. And here I was fantasizing about being bent over a workbench like some kind of—
Clearly you need to get laid. Or therapy. Possibly both.
“I should—” I started, my voice embarrassingly husky.
“Yeah.” He stepped back, creating distance, and I could have sworn I saw relief and frustration war in his expression.
“So, you coming back tomorrow?”
His jaw clenched, and I watched something flash in his eyes—heat, want, conflict. Watched him fight with himself for a moment before answering. “Race sent me here to help. And I owe him. So yeah. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
I owe him.
Right. The debt. The obligation. The only reason he was here.
I ignored the small twist of disappointment in my chest. What had I expected? That he’d say something different? That the tension crackling between us meant anything to him beyond physical attraction—if he even felt that?
You’re an idiot, Charlotte Adams.
Grumpy as a bear, I reminded myself. Temporary. Here for Race. Nothing more.
Even if my body was currently screaming for more. Even if I was wet and aching and desperate for those hands on me.
“Good,” I managed. “That’s good. Did Dale tell you when we start?”
“Yeah.”
We stood there for another beat, neither of us moving. His eyes dropped to my lips again, and I watched them darken. He inhaled deeply, then leaned in just a fraction before he caught himself and stepped back.
And God, that almost-movement made my entire body clench with need.
“I better catch up with Dale.”
He walked past me toward where Dale waited, and this time I let myself watch. Let myself appreciate the way his shoulders looked, the way his jeans fit his ass, the way he moved with that controlled power that made me want to see him lose control.
Made me want to be the reason he lost control.
The moment he was out of earshot, I let out a long, shaky breath and slumped against the workbench, pressing my thighs together against the ache.
One day. I’d survived one day of working with Crew Crawford.
And I had a sinking feeling that by the time he left Lone Mountain, I was going to be completely ruined for any other man.
Assuming I don’t spontaneously combust from sexual frustration first.