Chapter 3 Harris #2
I shrug. “I’m the emergency fill-in lumberjack. I hopped on a plane as fast as I could to get here. It’s not my fault I left most of my shit behind.”
Goddamn, I’m good at improv. I should get paid for this!
Her mouth twitches as if she’s fighting back a laugh. “An emergency fill-in lumberjack. Quite the backstory. You must be very dedicated to the craft.”
I scoff. “Dedicated doesn’t even begin to cover it.
” The words flow like I’ve been waiting to play a fake lumberjack for years.
“I got the call from corporate in the middle of the night—‘Harris, we need you. Star Lake is in crisis.’ So I packed up what I could, threw on the closest thing to flannel, and here I am.”
“Here you are,” she deadpans, nodding solemnly.
“Annabelle made it sound like it was life or death,” I ad-lib, getting further into character.
She laughs, finally letting her guard down a little. “Well, I hope you’re ready for her wrath. She’s pretty pissed off.”
Wrath? I like that word.
“I’m the hero of this story. Annabelle should be thanking me for showing up at all.”
“Oh, is that how it works?” she asks. “I thought you were doing a job. For money.”
I snort, crushing the cardboard coffee cup in my mighty fist. RAH! “This is not just a job—it’s a lifestyle.”
“A lifestyle, huh? So you’re saying you eat, sleep, and breathe lumberjackery?”
“Yes, exactly.” I puff out my chest, fully committing to this role. “It’s not for the faint of heart. Takes grit. Takes dedication. And, most importantly”—I lean in conspiratorially, lowering my voice—“it takes a lot of sex appeal.”
“Wow.” The woman finally loses it, her laughter spilling out in a way that’s completely unguarded. Loud. “Just . . . wow. You are really something.”
“Something great?” I raise my arm and aim, directing the crumpled coffee cup into the nearby trash can with a dramatic flick of my wrist. It goes in. Score! “Don’t forget that part.”
“Don’t you worry, I won’t.”
“So.” I get down to business. “When does Annabelle need me to start? Should I show up at dawn? Or does she prefer a midafternoon entrance?”
“You realize she’s actually going to expect you to work,” she tells me. “That’s what you’re being paid for: chopping wood, lifting heavy things for the tourists—you know the drill since it’s the stuff you live and breathe.” She rolls her eyes, and I’m somewhat insulted at her mockery.
“Lumberjacks thrive under pressure. We don’t just carry logs, you know—we carry town festivals on our backs.” I take a breath. “Passed down from generation to generation.”
“Right. Sure.” She’s humoring me now, but I don’t mind. Bumping into her has been the best part of my day so far. “And this sacred duty—does it include chopping wood in coordinated plaid outfits, or is that a bonus?”
“Only if you’re advanced level,” I reply, straight faced. “Coordination comes with years of experience. You earn the plaid you wear.”
She’s shaking her head now. “Well. I’ll be glad to let Annabelle know I found one of her guys.” Pause. “Do you have her number?”
I’m shaking my head now too. “No ma’am, I do not.”
“Wanna give me your phone so I can give it to you?”
Give it to you. “I’d love for you to give it to me.”
Her face scrunches up. “Don’t be a pervert—it’s too early.”
“Sorry.” It’s a habit. After pulling my phone out of my pocket, I set it in her palm. “But fair warning, it’s almost dead. No signal out here.”
She snorts. “That happens in the mountains sometimes. And let me guess—you don’t have a charger either?”
“Left it in my other flannel,” I admit. “The one that matches my suspenders.”
She doesn’t respond. Rather, she focuses on punching her friend Annabelle’s number into my cell. Her fingers move quickly over the screen, and I take the moment to study her—messy bun, slightly crooked smile. It’s an easy kind of energy, making it hard not to smile back.
Or want to bone her.
“There.” She hands my phone back. “All set. Now you have no excuses.” Her eyes roam up and down my body. “You’d better not let her down, Lumberjack.”
Let her down?
I’m a football player, not a goddamn lumberjack. The fact that she believes me has done wonders for my ego.
“Don’t worry,” I say, flashing her the teeth that cost me $60,000 out of pocket. “When I show up, I’ll be the best goddamn emergency lumberjack this town has seen.”
Her laughter follows her as she begins walking toward the counter. “We’ll see about that.”
“What’s your name?”
She studies me a few seconds. “Lucy.”
Lucy.
I play the name on a loop through my brain as I watch her order breakfast, chatting up the barista, and I find myself grinning like an idiot as I replay the last few minutes in my head. She orders a muffin—blueberry—and a steaming cup of tea. No coffee for her, apparently.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say, straightening up and attempting to look less like a guy who’s been caught staring at her ass. “Only making sure you’ve got enough fuel for yoga.”
She smirks, biting into the muffin. “Yoga’s harder than chopping wood, I’ll have you know. You might want to try it sometime.”
Pass.
Hard. Pass.
“Just so you know, I can already touch my toes,” I boast. “I choose not to.”
She giggles softly, tossing the muffin wrapper into the trash as she clutches the tea. “Flexibility is the key to a long and healthy life.”
“Flexibility is overrated,” I counter, resisting the urge to flex my muscles. “Strength gets the job done.”
Lucy sighs. “Good luck with that. I’ll be sure to cheer you on at the Fall Fest if I see you.”
Not gonna happen, but I nod anyway.
“I’ll make it look easy,” I shoot back with a grin. “The other dudes won’t know what hit them.”
“Well. I’ll look forward to it.” She steps toward the door, pausing to glance back over her shoulder. “See you around, Mr. Lumberjack.”
Mr. Lumberjack.
I like the sound of that.
The little bell above the door tinkles, jingling softly, and before I can say another word, Lucy is gone.
Through the window, I watch her disappear down the sidewalk. It takes me a second to realize my grin has faded, replaced by a single nagging thought: She didn’t give me her number.
It’s not like I didn’t give her the chance.
I mean, I handed her my phone—she had it in her palm!
And she didn’t use the opportunity! Granted, it was to type in Annabelle’s number, but still.
Most women I’ve met wouldn’t need an invitation.
Usually, they’re slipping me their digits before I can even ask, batting their lashes, dropping not-so-subtle hints.
Not her.
She . . . walked away.
My ego stings a little. Okay, maybe more than a little. I’m used to women being all over me, and now I’m left here wondering why she didn’t even offer.
No way was she not into me.
I could see it in her smile, the way she teased me. She’s playing hard to get.
Yeah, that’s it.
She wants me to chase her.
Maybe I will. After all, I’ve got her name now. And Annabelle’s number.
More than enough to work with . . .