Climb Me Maybe (Deepwood Mountain: Lumberjacks of Timber Run #3)

1. Imogen

IMOGEN

B ehold the land of sexy mountain men…

I park in the lot near the main lobby at the Timber Run Eco-Historical Lumberjack Camp , and my composure takes a nosedive straight into a pool of inappropriate comments. Followed by a Beavis and Butthead chuckle.

The place is crawling with ridiculously attractive men doing smoking hot things with axes, chainsaws, and enough flannel to single-handedly revive the grunge movement.

One guy’s in a sleeveless shirt that shows off biceps that could crush beer cans. Another— sweet baby Jesus —is hefting an enormous log over his shoulder like it’s a bag of cotton balls.

“Imogen…you're here for business,” I recite to a chipmunk staring at me from a stump.

Right. Business. The kind that involves keeping my hands strictly professional and my panties firmly in place while I provide massage services to stressed-out lumberjacks for a week.

Yikes.

The camp worked out a deal with the Serenity Springs Wellness Center, a resort and spa currently under construction in Deepwood Mountain, Montana, where I’ll be interviewing for Managing Massage Therapist.

That is…if I don’t let one of these lumbersnacks whisk me away forever to the top of a mountain.

I shake off the fantasy and head toward the lobby office. I’m attempting to look competent and self-assured instead of someone whose brain just short-circuited. Because a bearded giant across the way just split wood with the kind of talent that makes me wonder what else those hands are good at.

Professional. Boundaries. Ethics.

The mantra works for approximately thirty seconds until I walk past the axe-throwing demonstration area and witness what can only be described as a tactical flannel situation.

Three different lumberjacks, three different styles of devastatingly handsome, all wielding sharp objects with the kind of casual competence that should probably come with a warning label.

I mean, holy mother of forearm porn.

I'm so busy noting the various ways Montana has cornered the market on gorgeous outdoorsmen that I nearly walk face-first into the camp office door.

The door swings open just as I reach for the handle, and I find myself colliding with a towering slab of solid muscle wrapped in a navy flannel shirt.

"Whoa—" Strong calloused hands shoot out to catch my shoulders, steadying me before I can embarrass myself further. "Sorry about that. Are you okay?"

The voice rumbles through me before I see his face. I tilt my head back. Further. Further. Shit, is his hairline in orbit?

Striking midnight blue eyes blink down at me, his salt and pepper hair styled with the kind of careless perfection that says “I fell out of a tree and somehow this happened.” His square-jaw could be chiseled from stone, and I watch his throat bob as my gaze lingers on the ink peeking from his collar—traditional Japanese waves or something, ancient and beautiful against his lightly tanned skin.

My brain promptly forgets how to speak.

"I—yes. Sorry. I wasn't watching where I was—" I pat his rock-hard pec and he jolts like I tasered him. Then I gesture at the door, at him, at the general concept of spatial awareness that's abandoned me. "You're very big—uh, tall."

Brilliant opening line, Imogen. Really showcasing your communication skills.

A flush creeps up his neck and his mouth quirks up on one side.

I figure he's probably in his forties, with the kind of mature handsomeness that suggests he's figured out exactly who he is and gotten comfortable with it. There's something quietly magnetic about the way he carries himself—controlled, refined, like every movement is deliberate.

Also, his hands are still on my shoulders, and the heat is doing illegal things to my core.

"I’m…" Seems I’m still having trouble forming complete sentences. "Yes. I’m okay. How about you?"

"I'm fine," he says, and there's something almost shy in the way he's looking at me. His gaze travels over me, but instead of judgment, like I often get with my pink hair, piercings, and tattoos, I see what looks like curiosity.

"I should—I need to get going," he says suddenly, dropping his hands and stepping back. But he doesn't actually move toward wherever he's supposed to be going.

"Right. Of course. Me too. I mean, I'm here for—business." I point at the door, trying to look like someone who definitely knows what she's doing and isn't completely flustered by a hunky lumberjack.

He nods, still not moving. "Good. That’s…good."

That voice does things to me. Filthy things.

What is happening right now?

"Well," I say, finally taking a step toward the office. "I should probably..."

"Yeah. Yeah, me too." He turns to go, but I catch him glancing back over his shoulder. Once. Twice.

And then he stumbles on the bottom step of the boardwalk.

I bite my lip to keep from smiling as he recovers quickly, pretending nothing happened, and disappears around the corner of the building.

Interesting.

As I walk into the office, the woman behind the desk looks up with a warm smile. She's pretty in that outdoorsy, no-makeup-needed way that I simultaneously admire and resent.

"You must be Imogen! I'm Teagan Leigh, co-founder. We're so excited to have you here." She shakes my hand enthusiastically. "The crew is practically fighting over massage appointments."

"Nice," I glance toward the door where Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Adorably-Awkward disappeared. I really hope he’s part of the crew.

Teagan's smile turns slightly conspiratorial. "Most of them, anyway. One of our guys is a little... resistant to the idea of therapeutic touch."

“Oh?”

“Our high-rigger, aka tree climber. Incredible body, but he's got some...issues with strangers touching him."

"I find that resistance usually comes from unfamiliarity," I say. "A lot of people think massage is just spa fluff, but therapeutic work is actually pretty intense. Deep tissue, trigger point release, myofascial work—it's more like physical therapy than a spa treatment at times.”

"Exactly," Teagan agrees.

"I specialize in working with athletic populations," I add. "Climbers, especially, tend to develop very specific muscle tension patterns. I'd be happy to do a consultation for him—no pressure, just education about what therapeutic work involves."

"That sounds perfect," Teagan says warmly. "He mentioned some back tension after yesterday's demonstration, but getting him to actually do something about it..." She shakes her head with fond exasperation.

"Ah, the classic 'I’ll walk it off" type,” I say with a knowing smile. "I see that a lot. They'll push through pain that would have most people flat on their backs."

"I could see him favoring his left side yesterday, walking like his spine’s made of Legos. But he's too stubborn to admit he needs help."

I perk up at the challenge. "I'll keep that in mind," I say, accepting the cabin key Teagan hands me. "If he—or any of the guys—wants to reach out, just have them text me. Sometimes it's easier for them to ask for help when they don't have to do it face-to-face."

“Smart,” she says.

"Thanks, Teagan. I'm looking forward to working with your team."

“Our pleasure… literally! ”

She waves as I head toward my cabin with a head full of questions about midnight blue eyes, sexy hair, and massive pecs.

The way my pulse kicked up when those firm hands steadied me suggests I might be in trouble.

But this gig with Serenity Springs is my golden ticket—full-time position, health benefits, and someplace stable to call home. No more freelance hustle.

The spa manager wants testimonials from the guys here before my interview. And yet the thought of touching every inch of the lean, muscled body on that sexy lumbersnack is driving me a little crazy.

Professional boundaries, I remind myself firmly as I unlock my cabin door.

Right. Those.