Chapter 3 #2
Dad harrumphs. “Yeah, he’s burned too many brain cells I’m afraid.”
“But seriously though, I’m open to same-sex marriage for this trust issue to be resolved. How did you hit on Edith? What was your move?”
“Goodbye, Addie May. I’ll see you in October for the Man of the Mountain competition. You’re still doing the awards presentation,
right?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” I deadpan.
Another heavy pause. “It’s moments like this that I recognize how much I failed as a father.”
We hang up and I walk over to the bulletin board on the wall by the window where the Man of the Mountain flyer is pinned.
The top text above the logo is “Sponsored by Monroe Lumber and Building Center.” At the bottom of the flyer, it reads “All
Proceeds to Go to the Fallen Angels Family Center,” a charity that supports families and victims of drunk drivers.
My throat tightens as I rub my finger along our business logo. This event is huge for the yard every year and raises a shit
ton of money for this charity. What if the new owners my dad wants to sell to don’t sponsor this every year? What if the charity
has come to depend on this donation and struggles without it? Has my dad put any of that in writing?
Damn, I need a husband. Or a wife! They started offering the women’s division with Man of the Mountain a few years ago on
a different weekend and you bet your ass I signed up as fast as I could.
I then proceeded to get my ass kicked by real-life lumberjills that work in the mills or reside in logging towns. I was delusional
to think working in a lumberyard prepared me to go up against lumberjills. The truth is, I’m a bougie Boulder-born “softie”
compared to those beasts, but it was a fun experience to at least try and fail at.
Now I just show up and present the medals to the winners and a check to the charity at the closing ceremonies. A much easier gig that my dad pawned off on me years ago the moment his knees started struggling to climb those stage steps.
And he just wants to sell that family tradition right out from under me.
It’s too bad I’ve never made friends with any of the ladies I competed against or maybe I could ask one of them to be my fake
partner for a year until I inherit this company. But honestly, the lumberjill squad scares me. And what would I even say?
“Hi, my name’s Addison. I’m not a lesbian but would you consider being my friend and maybe marrying me and living with me
for a year so I can inherit my family’s lumberyard and then divorce you?”
I roll my eyes. Women are way too smart to say yes to that. Men are simpler creatures. I’ve really only had guy friends . . .
or at least . . . guy friends of my dad’s since the lumberyard was basically our whole life. I host a meal for the guys at
least once a week at the yard here without my dad around. That’s friendship, right? Or does it not count if they’re my employees?
Are they just tolerating me because I’m the owner’s daughter?
Luke Fletcher is my only friend outside the lumberyard and he’s definitely not my dad’s friend. My dad can’t stand Luke. He
mean mugs him every time he comes in. It’s comical really. I think the old man assumed it was a romantic thing developing
between me and Luke, so that’s why he went into the “I own several guns and know how to use them” mode, but that’s all for
nothing. Luke and I are just friends.
I don’t really even know how our friendship happened. One day he was one of the burly bearded brothers who came in to pick
up building supplies for Fletcher Brothers Construction, and the next day he was just . . . a part of my life.
We grab drinks or lunch together pretty regularly since we both work in Boulder.
I even have him over to my apartment for dinner quite a bit.
Cooking is a passion of mine but it’s not fun doing it for just one person, so I like having Luke over.
Chuck and Bullhead don’t have the refined palates that some of my more daring dishes require.
Luke, on the other hand, loves everything I make.
I haven’t cooked for him in a couple months now because we’re sort of in a fight? I’m not sure. I just know we haven’t spoken
much since he offered to marry me after we were in Mexico for his brother’s wedding. The whole thing was awkward as fuck.
I thought he was messing with me, and it turns out he was serious I guess? I’m not sure because he’s avoiding me like an asshole.
And hell, I miss him. He’s usually such a safe space for me. I can be “soft” with him, and he never teases me for it, because
he only knows me that way. I never hide that part of myself from him.
Unlike my dad and his friends, who I’ve had to act tough for most of my young adult life. I remember getting my period at
work and asking if I could run to the store for something and my dad barked at me to get back to work because we were way
behind. I didn’t have the courage to tell him what my real problem was, so I just balled up toilet paper and got back on the
forklift.
The horror I felt when I got off the chair and saw that I’d leaked on the seat haunts me to this day. I snuck back into the
lumberyard after hours to clean up my mess so none of the guys would see it the next day. That kind of secrecy gets tiring.
And with Luke, it doesn’t even exist. Hell, one time I randomly told him on the phone that I was crabby because I had my period and he brought me chocolate when he came to pick up an order.
Who taught him how to do that for a woman?
His mom? That’s impressive because she had four boys, so it’s not like she had any reason to discuss it.
Or maybe it was his niece that he’s super close to.
All I know is he’s going to make a great husband to someone someday. Just not me.
My eyes catch sight of movement out in the lumberyard, and I step in front of the window to get a better look.
My heart rate quickens because it’s Luke Fletcher out there talking to Bullhead as if I conjured him here with my thoughts.
Dang, he looks good. Has he gotten more buff since our trip?
When I first met the Fletcher brothers, I could barely tell them apart. They’re all well-over-six-foot, bearded, and built
bros who must share a closet as well as a mountaintop because I rarely see them in anything but plaids and jeans, even in
the thick of summer.
But Luke has a slightly leaner build to his frame than the others. That was very clear in Mexico when the guys were all shirtless
in the pool. All of them are extremely fit for thirty- and even fortysomething-year-old men. But Luke’s muscles are way more
defined. I could see every ridge of his abs and the deep V of his hips that disappeared into those low-slung boardshorts.
The genetics in that family are out of this world.
Luke moves differently too. His gait is quicker and more purposeful. Probably from being the youngest of four boys and always
running to catch up. I remember what it felt like to have a little brother chase after me.
My throat feels tight as that thought conjures up a memory I don’t want to explore, so I grab my phone and make my way through
the building center to head outside.
The August sun is blazing as I beeline across the hot pavement, straight for my buddy. He hasn’t picked up an order here in
weeks, usually sending his brother Calder instead. I’m about to give him a piece of my mind about that. Luke’s head turns
as if he can sense my approach, and when we lock eyes, I instantly feel lighter.
“Hey, shithead!” I bellow as I barrel right into him, giving him a hard shove in the gut that pushes all the air from his lungs.
He laughs and shakes his head, stumbling back and pressing his hand to his hat in that shy way he has about him. He squints
and shoots me a smile. “Hey, Roe.”
“Long time no see.” I prop my hands on my hips and glance over to Bullhead, who’s writing something down in a clipboard. “I
can take over, Bullhead.”
“Okay, boss lady,” Bullhead says, tucking his pencil behind his ear before passing off Luke’s order form to me. He waves his
goodbye and takes off and I turn back to my friend, noticing he seems to be avoiding eye contact with me.
“What brings you in today?” I ask, glancing down at the sheet but not really giving a shit about it.
“Oh, we need some decking quotes for a new smart house we’re bidding out,” Luke replies, walking over to a large stack of
uncapped composite decking we just got in. It uses a lot of recycled plastics in it, so it’s always something his brother
Wyatt goes for with all the green developing the Fletcher Brothers started doing the past few years.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I ask, blocking the sun from my eyes as I squint up at him. Luke is a solid six foot two and I’m
maybe five-six in my platform shoes, so he’s definitely got the height advantage on me.
“Wyatt wanted me to come see what you had on hand.”
“Cool, cool,” I reply, wondering why it feels so fucking awkward with my friend right now. “We can get you set up for sure.”
“Thanks,” Luke replies, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“So how have you been?” I ask, sitting down on a stack of two-by-sixes that wobble under my weight.
“Good, you?” Luke replies automatically as he moves over and steadies the wood.
“Can’t complain.” I shrug dismissively. “It’s weird not having my dad around here every day.”
“I bet.” Luke glances back at the building center. “Nice for me though. I don’t have to worry about a rifle being pointed
through that window right there.”
I laugh as I recall the time I stood right here with Luke, and we saw my dad holding his hunting gun in the window. He wasn’t
aiming it at us, just showing it off and making his feelings known.
“He’s all talk.”
“So you keep telling me.” Luke yanks his baseball hat off his head and runs his fingers through his sandy-brown hair that’s
longer than I’ve ever seen it. It curls out at the bottom when he puts his cap back on and I have a strange urge to run my
fingers through it. Not that I would ever act on that urge.
My God that would be awkward.
There was a moment in Mexico, however, where I thought Luke was wanting to cross our friendship boundaries. He had this look
in his eyes when we got to the villa and realized we had to share a two-bed suite that made me so fucking nervous.
It’s not that I don’t find Luke attractive. I’d have to be dense as hell not to notice.
It’s just that I could never cross that line with him because I like him too much. I’m not a relationship girlie and I never
will be, so to sleep with someone I consider a friend would be the quickest way to lose said friend. Same goes for marrying
said friend.
Thankfully, Luke never acted on anything. In fact, after I unloaded to him about my husband hunt plan, he told me he planned
to never get married as well. Which is why I was so taken off guard by that letter he wrote me. I still don’t really know
if he was serious about that or just joking. Going MIA with me for nearly two months makes me wonder.
“You doing okay without your dad around though? Seriously?” Luke stares at me with a concerned look in his eyes that feels like a warm hug.
I shrug and wrinkle my nose, trying not to reveal just how much it’s been affecting me. “He’s happy so that’s all that matters.”
Luke’s brown eyes search mine. “You matter.”
Damn him. He always sees right through me.
“Hey, why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night?” I ask, trying to get the focus off me. “I haven’t cooked anything
decent in ages.”
Luke’s brows lift with interest. “What’s on the menu?”
“Whatever you like. I’m running to the store tonight so you can place your request.”
“Oh shit . . . that’s an offer I can’t refuse.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his corded muscles on full display as
he pinches his chin in thought. “Your Alfredo is amazing. Your salmon is amazing. Oh . . . that bang bang shrimp you made
one time still makes me drool randomly.”
I laugh and shake my head, letting the food compliments roll over me in a way that heals my soul. I love cooking for people
and hearing how much they enjoy it. It’s an act-of-service thing that scratches a part of my brain and gives me validation
on some fundamental level.
“Is it too hot for your jambalaya?” Luke asks, glancing up at the sun. “That’s basically a soup, right?”
“It’s more of a stew or a one-pot dish, but who gives a fuck. Fact or fiction . . . soup is my favorite food group?”
“That is a fact,” Luke replies with a warm smile.
I smile back at him, feeling better than I have since my dad flew out to Florida over a month ago. “Seven ‘o clock work for
you?”
“I’ll bring the beer.”
“My man.” I slap my hands on my thighs, grateful that it feels like the old Luke is back. Hopefully he’s done being mad at me over this whole husband hunt thing. We’re too good of friends to let a potential fake marriage come between us.
“Come on into the AC and we can talk about what you guys need to order.”
“Sounds good,” he says, and I feel myself grinning as I lead the way back to my office. This smile right here is why I’ll
do whatever it takes to keep Luke in my life . . .
. . . because no one makes me feel as good as him.
Not even soup.