CHAPTER FIVE
Crew
The problem with avoiding someone was that it made you super aware of them.
Every time Charlotte walked into a room, I knew instantly that she was there. I’d find an excuse to leave. A delivery to check. A tool I needed from the truck. Anything to put distance between us before I did something stupid.
Like kiss her again.
Dale was watching me again. I could feel his eyes on me as we worked on a custom bookshelf order, could sense the knowing look even without turning around.
“Are you going tell me what’s eating you?” he finally asked. “Or do I have to guess?”
“Nothing’s eating me.”
“Right. And I’m Santa Claus.” He set down his sander. “Look, man. I’ve known Charlotte since she was eighteen years old. And I’ve seen the way you two look at each other when you think nobody’s watching.”
My jaw clenched. My hands tightened on the wood I was holding, knuckles going white. “Dale—”
“I’m not saying anything about it. Just that whatever’s going on, avoiding her isn’t fixing it. If anything, you’re both wound tighter than springs.” He paused. “And Marcus asked me yesterday if you and the boss were fighting. Kid’s perceptive.”
Marcus. The nineteen-year-old doing community service at the mill after getting caught doing something stupid on Race’s land. Charlotte had taken him in, given him real work instead of just making him sweep floors. The kid had turned out to have a real talent for woodworking.
“We’re not fighting,” I said.
“No, you’re just avoiding each other like you’ve got the plague. That’s totally different.” Dale’s tone was dry. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, and I don’t need to know. But Charlotte’s good people. Best boss I’ve ever had. And you’re making her miserable.”
The words hit harder than they should have. “I’m not—”
“You are. She’s putting on a good show with all the Christmas stuff, but I know her. Something’s bothering her. Or someone.” He fixed me with a look. “Just think about it, yeah? Life’s too short for whatever game you’re playing.”
He walked away before I could respond, leaving me standing there with guilt twisting in my gut. I wasn’t trying to make Charlotte miserable. I was trying to keep my distance. Trying not to fuck up her life by wanting things I had no right to want.
But maybe Dale was right. Maybe avoiding her was making everything worse.
I threw myself back into the work, using physical labor to burn off the restless energy that had been building for days. The bookshelf was intricate work—custom scrollwork that required absolute concentration. Exactly what I needed.
Except I couldn’t concentrate. Because every time I looked up, there she was.
Walking past with her hair pulled back, competence in every line of her body.
Laughing at something one of the crew said.
Checking inventory with that little furrow between her brows that made me want to kiss that spot, to soothe it with my tongue.
Marcus appeared at my workstation around mid-afternoon, looking nervous. “Hey, Crew? Boss wants to see you in her office.”
My stomach dropped. My cock thickened at just the thought of being alone with her, and I had to grit my teeth against the response. “Now?”
“Yeah. She said when you get a chance, but...” He shrugged. “You know how it is.”
I did know. When the boss said when you get a chance, she meant now.
I cleaned up my workspace and headed toward her office, my jaw clenched. Fine. This was fine. Just the boss needing something from an employee.
Except my body didn’t believe that lie. My body remembered exactly what it felt like to have her pressed against me. To hear her gasp my name. To taste her mouth, to hear those desperate little sounds she’d made. To feel how wet she’d been, how ready, how much she’d wanted me.
Her office door was open and she sat behind her desk, focused on her computer screen, typing something with quick, efficient movements. For a moment, I just stood there, watching her, before knocking on the doorframe.
“You wanted to see me?”
She looked up, and something flickered in her eyes before her expression went carefully neutral. But I saw it—that flash of heat, of want, of memory. “Come in.”
I stepped inside but stayed near the door, keeping distance between us. Because if I got too close, I’d touch her. And if I touched her, I wouldn’t stop.
“We have a problem,” she said, turning her monitor so I could see. “Henderson order. The oak paneling. He needs it delivered tomorrow morning, first thing. Which means we need to finish it tonight.”
I looked at the specifications on the screen. There were at least four hours of work left—sanding, finishing touches, quality check, packaging.
“I can stay late,” I said. “Get it done.”
“We’ll both stay.” She stood up, grabbing her work gloves from the desk. “It’ll go faster with two people, and I need to make sure it’s perfect before it goes out. Henderson’s one of our oldest customers.”
Before I could argue, she was walking past me, close enough that I caught that sweet scent that followed her everywhere. Everything in me screamed to grab her, spin her around, bend her over her desk, and and—
The next few hours were going to be torture.
By the time the rest of the crew cleared out for the day, Charlotte and I had the Henderson order spread across the specialty section workbenches.
The overhead lights cast everything in sharp relief, and the Christmas music had finally stopped, leaving just the quiet hum of the building and the sound of our tools.
And the sound of our breathing. Hers slightly too fast, slightly too shallow. Mine controlled but rough, every inhale bringing her scent, every exhale fighting the urge to close the distance between us.
“I’ll start with the sanding,” Charlotte said, her voice all business as she tied her hair back. But I heard the slight tremor in it, saw the way her hands shook just a little as she secured the tie.
“I’ll do the final measurements and make sure everything’s square.
” I got to work, trying to focus on the wood and not on the woman ten feet away from me.
Again, I was mesmerized by her graceful movements.
Of course, now that I’d held her, all I could do was imagine her body moving over mine, under mine, against mine.
She ran her hands over a piece of oak, feeling for imperfections, and I found myself mesmerized by the movement. Those hands were calloused from work, strong and capable. She could operate a table saw, lift heavy lumber, read blueprints, manage a crew. And God, I wanted those hands on me.
She could handle just about anything in this mill.
Could she handle the scarred, broken parts of me? The darkness, the nightmares? Could she handle how rough I’d be, how desperate, how thoroughly I’d claim her?
I pushed the thought away and focused on sanding, letting the repetitive motion clear my head.
“You’re good at this,” Charlotte said after a while, breaking the silence. She was examining a piece I’d just finished. “The detail work. It’s impressive.”
“I built furniture with my grandfather before I enlisted.” The words came out before I could stop them. I didn’t usually talk about my past, about before.
“He taught you well.”
“He did.” I moved to the next piece. “He always told me working with your hands kept you honest.”
“Can you hand me the 220 grit?” she asked, gesturing to the sandpaper on the far workbench.
I grabbed it and held it out to her. Our fingers brushed when she took it, and that brief contact sent electricity shooting up my arm.
My cock jerked in my jeans, hardening instantly from that simple touch.
We both froze for a fraction of a second before she pulled away, focusing intently on the wood in front of her.
We worked for another two hours, the silence broken only by the sounds of our tools and the occasional instruction. The tension never eased. If anything, it got worse—building with every accidental brush of shoulders, every moment our eyes met, every breath of her scent that filled my lungs.
By the time we finished packaging the order, it was late. The sawmill was dark except for our section, the windows showing nothing but blackness outside.
“That’s it,” Charlotte said, stepping back to survey the completed order. “Looks good. Really good.”
“It does.” I started cleaning up my workspace, putting tools away with meticulous care. Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to keep from reaching for her.
“I can close up,” I offered. “It’s been a long day. You look tired.”
She turned to me, wariness flickering in her eyes. Like she wasn’t sure if the offer was genuine or just another excuse to avoid her. “I am,” she admitted finally.
“What about your brother?”
She smiled at my question. “After his career with the NFL was over, he did come back to the mill. He does the contracts now. Sales meetings with bigger clients. But now, he’s a little distracted. He married my best friend, Evie, last year.”
There was no bitterness in her voice, just love for her brother.
But I knew she carried too much. Always had, probably.
And no one seemed to notice. I noticed. I noticed everything about her.
The way she tried to hide her exhaustion.
The way she took on more than she should.
The way she gave and gave and never asked for anything in return.
And I wanted to give her something. I wanted to take care of her, to ease that burden, to make her feel good instead of tired and stressed.
“Go home,” I said. “Get some rest. We’ve got an early morning.”
She hesitated, studying me. Her green eyes searching my face like she was trying to read something there. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I’ve got it.”
“Okay.” She grabbed her coat, and for a moment I thought she might say something else. But she just nodded. “Thanks for staying late. And for... everything.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Right. Your job.” Something flickered in her expression—hurt, maybe, or frustration—but it was gone before I could identify it. “See you in the morning, Crew.”
“In the morning,” I confirmed.
She left, and I finished cleaning up the workspace, double-checking that everything was secure for the night. Then I stood there for a moment in the empty sawmill, surrounded by the smell of sawdust and the ghost of her scent. My cock still half-hard, my body still aching.
Tomorrow. Four hours alone in a truck with Charlotte. Four hours of her scent filling the cab, her body inches away from mine, her voice and her laugh and her presence surrounding me with nowhere to escape.
Tomorrow was just another day, I told myself. Just a delivery. Just a job.
And I had to hold on to my control no matter what.
Even if that control was already fraying at the edges. Even if it took everything I had not to go after her right now. Not to chase her down and apologize for being a coward. Not to finally admit that I wanted her—wanted her so badly it was tearing me apart.
I locked up the sawmill and headed to my truck, my jaw clenched with determination.
Tomorrow. I’d get through tomorrow. And then the day after that. And the day after that.
Until this job was done and I could leave before I did something stupid.
Like admit that I might have already fallen for a woman who smelled like pine trees and Christmas.