Falling for the Lumberjack (Sexy Lumbersnacks)

CHAPTER ONE

Sally

There was nothing worse than a man who made your thighs clench and your teeth grind at the same time.

And that, unfortunately, was Landry Freaking McAllister in a nutshell. Or should I say flannel. The big, burly lumberjack was the bane of my existence.

The man was infuriating. Arrogant, broody, and about as emotionally expressive as a damn tree. A huge, six-foot-five wall of raw, muscle-bound irritation wrapped in flannel. His presence in a room was like gravity itself—impossible to ignore yet pulling everything toward him whether he wanted the attention or not.

And worst of all?

I wanted him.

Not in some dreamy, I doodled our names together in a notebook way . Not in a love song and grand romance kind of way.

No.

I wanted him in a filthy, consume-me-completely kind of way. The kind that kept me awake at night, sheets twisted around my legs, skin flushed with heat as I imagined those large, callused hands exploring every inch of me.

Ever since I’d moved to Lone Mountain, Montana, six months ago, I’d tried to shake it. Tried to logic my way out of it. I’d dated other men in the past—kind, considerate men who smiled easily and wore their emotions on their sleeves. Men who made sense for someone like me.

I knew Landry McAllister was not the kind of man who whispered sweet words or caressed with gentle touches. He wasn’t the guy who kissed you slow, hands cradling your face like you were the most precious thing in the world.

He was the kind of man who grabbed, took, and left you trembling. The kind whose touch would brand itself onto your skin, whose kisses would haunt you long after they ended.

And that?

That terrified me. And thrilled me in equal measure.

Because if he ever looked at me the way I secretly wished he would—if he ever touched me the way I fantasized about at night—I didn’t know if I’d survive it. The intensity of him, the raw power he contained beneath that stoic exterior, might consume me entirely.

Which was why I shouldn’t have been here, driving my beat-up truck up a rutted, dirt logging road, every bump rattling my bones and my sanity. With dark storm clouds gathering on the horizon, promising the storm that had been threatening all day.

Yet here I was.

Because the universe hated me.

Or, more accurately, my boss at the hardware store hated me. I knew deliveries were part of my job, but still. This was not how I wanted to spend the last of my shift. I’d rather be sorting nuts and bolts, inhaling the comforting scent of metal and sawdust than anticipating the heady, masculine scent of him. But, like the moon-struck idiot I was, I’d agreed.

So now, I was stuck white-knuckling the steering wheel, stomach tight, pulse already too fast. Because in a matter of minutes, I would have to stand within six feet of Landry McAllister’s impossible body. My fingers tightened on the worn leather of the wheel as I imagined the coming encounter—the inevitable clash of wills that always left me feeling both exhilarated and exhausted.

Two minutes of hearing that deep, gravel-rough voice that seemed to vibrate through my chest and settle somewhere much lower.

Two minutes of not trying to stare at the way his shirt stretched across those unfairly broad shoulders, at the flex of muscle beneath worn fabric, at the strength contained in every controlled movement he made.

Two minutes of pretending he didn’t make my panties wet, and my body burn with a need so intense it bordered on painful.

Honestly? Even though I was crushing hard, I’d rather roll naked in a patch of poison ivy.

The man barely acknowledged my existence on a good day. On a bad day? I was pretty sure he actively resented the air I breathed. As if my very presence was an affront to his carefully ordered world.

I drew in a deep breath as the logging site came into view. His logging camp consisted of heavy machinery and piles of logs waiting to be picked up and processed.

Then, suddenly, there he was.

Standing right in the middle of the damn driveway leading to his office, arms crossed over his chest like living barriers, jaw clenched so tight I could almost hear his teeth grinding, radiating that infamous I don’t have time for your nonsense energy. The breeze ruffled his dark hair that was a touch too long and curled slightly at the nape of his neck. I hated that I noticed. Hated even more that I wondered how it would feel between my fingers.

And his face?

He was not traditionally handsome but devastating all the same. All sharp angles, chiseled cheekbones, and a mouth that looked like it hadn’t smiled in years. His eyes, deep-set beneath dark brows, seemed to hold secrets and shadows. Permanent lines were etched between those brows, a testament to a lifetime of scowling—or perhaps bearing burdens he refused to share.

Everything about Landry was big and rugged and made my curvy body want to curl up against it. To test the hardness of his body against the softness of mine. To discover if those perpetually tense shoulders would finally relax under my touch.

I hated how badly I wanted him. How my hands trembled even as I tightened them around the steering wheel. The traitorous flutter in my stomach whenever our paths crossed. The way my body recognized him before my mind did—responding with a visceral awareness that defied logic or common sense.

A very small, reckless part of me wanted to floor the gas pedal, play a little game of chicken with the big guy. But knowing him, he’d let my truck slam into him just to prove a point. He’d stand there, immovable as the mountain itself, and dare me.

I pulled up beside him, rolling down my window and plastering on my best fake-sweet smile. The kind that showed too many teeth and reached nowhere near my eyes.

“Carter.” His greeting was a gruff, disinterested grunt that nonetheless sent unwelcome shivers down my spine. Not Sally, not even a polite Miss Carter. Just my last name, as if using my first name would be too personal. As if keeping that distance was vital to whatever rigid code he lived by.

“McAllister,” I shot back, my voice syrupy sweet, the saccharine tone designed to grate against his perpetual stoicism. “I brought your part. You’re welcome.”

He said nothing. Just stared at me with those stormy eyes that were brown one moment, black as pitch the next, depending on his mood. Which was always grumpy. The intensity of his gaze sent heat blooming across my skin—not from embarrassment, but from something far more personal. Recognition, perhaps. Awareness, definitely.

Against my better judgment, I stared right back. Because, well—he was hot. Unfairly, unjustly hot. The kind of hot that compromised common sense and good decisions. The kind of hot that made responsible women contemplate wildly irresponsible actions.

“Cutting it close,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble that seemed to rise from deep within his chest.

I blinked, momentarily distracted by the movement of his mouth. The firm line of it, the slight downward tilt at the corners. “Excuse me?”

“The storm’s coming in.” He gestured with a slight nod toward the gathering clouds, dark and ominous against the fading daylight. The wind had picked up, carrying with it the scent of impending rain and the distant rumble of thunder.

I blinked again, irritation flaring. “Oh, my bad, I’ll be sure to consult the weather gods next time before running errands for your royal pain-in-the-assness.”

His jaw twitched. I knew it wasn’t amusement, but irritation. It made me smile. I lived for these tiny breaks in his composure, these glimpses beneath the impenetrable armor he wore like a second skin.

And then, just for a second, his gaze dipped.

Not much. But enough.

Enough for me to catch it.

His gaze dragged down—to my lips, my throat, the curves he had seen a dozen times before. My body responded immediately. How could it not? I’m a woman after all. Albeit, an inexperienced woman, but a fully grown, I want to have hot sex with the mountain man woman. My nipples hardened beneath my bra, the fabric suddenly abrasive against my sensitive skin. My panties grew damp with an embarrassing quickness, my body preparing for an intimacy my mind knew wouldn’t come.

And it was all for him.

The big, brooding asshole standing there like a statue carved from solid rock. For the big hulking, wish he would rock my world, mountain man. For those hands that could probably span even my thick waist. For that mouth that never smiled but that I knew instinctively would know how to make a woman moan. Make me moan.

But just as quickly as the expression had appeared, it vanished. Locked away behind that impenetrable mask of indifference. As if he’d caught himself in some terrible transgression and immediately corrected course.

I hated him for it.

Hated him for making me want. Hated him for holding himself back. For maintaining that maddening control when I wanted nothing more than to see it shatter.

So, naturally, I pushed. Why? Because I have a teensy problem with pushing buttons I shouldn’t. Because something about Landry McAllister made me want to prod at his defenses until they cracked. Until I could glimpse the man beneath—the one I sometimes caught hints of in unguarded moments.

“You know, a thank you wouldn’t kill you,” I said, arching a brow, the challenge clear in my voice. “Or do McAllisters just grunt and glare at people all day?”

His jaw ticked harder, a tiny muscle jumping beneath the dark stubble that shadowed his face. I found myself wondering how that stubble would feel against my skin—my neck, my breasts, the sensitive insides of my thighs. The thought sent another rush of liquid heat pooling low in my body.

“I’d thank you if you hadn’t taken your sweet time getting here,” he said flatly, though there was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. Something raw and barely contained.

I scoffed, welcoming the surge of irritation that temporarily overshadowed my inappropriate thoughts. “Oh, my bad, I should’ve known you’d be tracking my travel time like a damn micromanager.”

I threw my truck into park, cut the engine, and took a deep breath before pushing the door open. Or that had been my plan.

The door stuck, metal grinding against metal in a familiar protest.

Because, of course, the universe was on Landry’s side. Always conspiring to make my life more difficult, more complicated.

I pushed harder, frustration mounting. “Oh, come on, you piece of—”

The door flew open suddenly—because gravity was a bitch and Landry freaking McAllister decided to help. He yanked it open with zero effort, the metal yielding to him in a way it never did for me.

And before I could gracefully tumble face-first onto the gravel, huge, rough hands caught me. Strong fingers curled around my upper arms, their grip firm but not painful. Never painful.

And then I was yanked forward. Right against a wall of muscle and heat. Landry’s chest.

I froze. My fingers splayed over firm, unforgiving heat, feeling the rapid thunder of his heartbeat beneath my palm. A direct contradiction to the composed expression on his face. The realization that he might not be as unaffected as he seemed sent a thrill through me.

And dang it, he smelled good.

Like a fresh cut pine tree and pure, rugged mountain man. Underneath it all was something uniquely him—something masculine and earthy that made my head spin. I’d make a fortune if I could bottle his scent. I breathed him in unconsciously, filling my lungs with the intoxicating aroma.

My fingers tightened in his shirt. Just slightly. Before I could stop myself. The fabric was soft with age and wear, warm from his body heat. I could feel every ridge of muscle beneath, every controlled breath he took.

His chest rose, a slow inhale. As if he, too, was breathing me in. Memorizing my scent the way I was memorizing his.

And then—his grip tightened. Just for a second.

Barely long enough for me to be sure I didn’t imagine it. It was long enough for my body to register the possessive nature of that grip, the barely leashed strength in those fingers.

And then, just like that, he dropped his hands. As if touching me had been a mistake. As if the brief connection between us had burned him.

“Careful,” he muttered, voice low and rough, like stones grinding together. There was something in his tone I couldn’t quite place—restraint, definitely. Regret? Probably.

I stumbled back a step, blinking hard, my cheeks flaming, my heart racing like I’d run a marathon. “Well, now we know my middle name isn’t Grace.”

His jaw clenched, like he had something to say. Or maybe, he just wanted me gone. I’d put a two-dollar bet on the last one.

A hot, stupid pang twisted in my stomach. Part desire, part disappointment, wholly unwelcome. I shouldn’t care. I really, really shouldn’t. But I did.

So, instead of dealing with whatever ridiculous feelings were trying to claw their way up, I shoved them down and turned to grab the damn part from my truck. Buried them beneath layers of practiced indifference, the way I’d learned to do with so many unwanted emotions.

I bent over the seat, reaching in. The position made my jeans pull tight across my rear, but I wasn’t thinking about that. Not really. Not consciously.

But then, I swear I heard it.

A low, barely-there sound.

Like a groan. Deep, involuntary, and quickly stifled. The kind of sound someone makes when their control slips, just for a moment.

My pulse slammed in my ears. My body tightened, a coil of anticipation winding deep in my core. And even though it was probably just my imagination, I couldn’t stop myself from shifting—just a little. Just enough to put a little more curve in my stance. Just enough to test a theory.

Silence.

Of course. Why should I expect anything else? I swallowed hard, the sound audible in the sudden quiet, and grabbed the box, fingers gripping the cardboard too tightly. Straightening slowly, I tried to compose myself, to calm the riot of sensations coursing through my body.

When I turned back, Landry was exactly where I’d left him.

Expression unreadable. Eyes dark. Shoulders rigid with tension. The pulse at his throat jumped erratically, the only sign that he might be affected by our proximity.

I wasn’t stupid enough to think I’d gotten to him.

But oh, how I wanted to.

I held the box out between us, a flimsy barrier. “Here’s your part.”

He took it, his big hands brushing mine for just a second. Just long enough to make every nerve in my body spark with awareness. His skin was rough, callused from years of physical labor, yet his touch was controlled. Deliberate, almost.

His fingers tightened around the box, his throat working as he swallowed. The movement drew my attention to the strong column of his neck, to the shadow of stubble that darkened his jaw. To the pulse that beat steadily, if perhaps a bit quickly, beneath his skin.

I needed to get out of here.

Now.

Before I did something stupid. Like reach out and trace that jumping pulse with my fingertips. Or worse, with my tongue.

I handed him the clipboard, lifting my chin in a show of professionalism that felt laughably false. “I’ll just need you—”

And that’s when Mother Nature decided to personally mess with me.

Crack. Boom.

The ground shuddered beneath us. A deep, deafening crash split the silence, followed by the sharp splintering of wood. The sound echoed through the clearing, momentarily drowning out the approaching thunder.

I whirled around to see what had happened, but as I did, an arm wrapped around my waist—tight. Solid. Unyielding. Like an iron band that both protected and trapped. And yanked me back.

Right into him.

Into Landry.

His chest was like stone against my back, unyielding yet somehow perfectly molded to my curves. His grip was tight. Protective. Absolute. As if he’d move mountains before he’d let harm come to me. The realization sent a different kind of warmth spreading through me—one that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with something more dangerous. Something that felt uncomfortably like trust.

For a second, neither of us moved.

His heartbeat pounded against my spine, strong, but racing. The rhythm matched my own, our bodies synced in this one, vital way.

His breath ghosted over my ear. Slow. Controlled. Warm against my skin, raising goosebumps along my neck.

Like he was holding something back. Something primal and hungry that threatened to break free.

I didn’t breathe.

I couldn’t.

Because suddenly, nothing else existed.

Not the tree that had fallen mere feet from where I’d been standing. Not the storm rolling in, dark clouds now directly overhead.

Just this.

The heat of his body. The strength of his hands. The way he held me like I was something precious and fragile, despite knowing I was neither. His fingers splayed possessively against my stomach, like he was memorizing the feel of me. Like he needed this contact as much as he seemed to avoid it.

I knew I should have stepped away. I should have said something snarky, made a joke, broken the spell that seemed to have fallen over us. Reminded us both of the careful distance we always maintained.

Instead, I just... stayed there. Sank into his embrace. Let myself experience, just for a moment, what it would be like if things were different between us. If the attraction that simmered beneath the surface was something we acknowledged rather than fought.

And then, too soon, he was stepping back. The loss of his warmth was immediate and profound, leaving me feeling strangely bereft.

His fingers dragged over my stomach as he let go, a slow, torturous slide. Like he hadn’t meant to touch me that way—but couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t stop himself from taking this one small liberty.

I exhaled shakily, turning around to face him. The sudden absence of his touch left me unbalanced, adrift. He was already watching me. And for the first time since I’d met the man, his expression wasn’t neutral. It was something else.

Something darker.

Something possessive.

His hand wrapped around my wrist—warm, calloused, huge. His fingers easily encircled the delicate bones, a gentle restraint that nonetheless sent fire racing through my veins.

And every single nerve in my body fired. Every sense heightened to painful clarity. I was acutely aware of everything—the approaching storm, the fallen tree, the warmth of his touch, the rapid flutter of my pulse beneath his fingers.

“We need to get inside.” He spoke low and firm, just as he always did. But something was different. Something had shifted between us. He knew it. I knew it. The air between us crackled with unspoken tension, with possibilities neither of us had dared acknowledge before.

And for the first time in my life, I didn’t argue.

Because I knew—

I had just become Landry McAllister’s problem for the night.

And judging by the way his grip had tightened around me before he let me go... by the darkness in his eyes and the tension in his powerful frame... I had just become his temptation, too.