Kissed By The Lumberjack (Sexy Lumbersnacks #14)

Chapter 1

EVERETT

The chainsaw bites through the Douglas fir like the tree owes me money.

I ease off the throttle and let the saw idle, wiping my face with the back of my glove.

The Mountain Bloom Festival kicked off three days ago, which means Whisper Vale is crawling with tourists taking pictures of wildflowers and clogging up the one decent coffee shop in town.

I've been avoiding Main Street like it's on fire.

My radio crackles. "Ev, you got a minute?"

Hank's voice. My foreman. Forty years in timber, half his left hand missing from a cable snap back in '98, and still the steadiest man I've ever worked with.

I key the radio. "What's up?"

"Your mama's here."

I close my eyes. "Tell her I'm in the middle of a cut."

"Tried that. She brought muffins."

Of course she did. Patty Cole doesn't ambush. She bribes.

I kill the saw and start the trudge back toward the landing, boots sinking into the soft spring earth.

The timber stand stretches behind me, old growth mixed with the managed sections my grandfather planted sixty years ago.

Three generations of Coles have worked this land.

My great-grandfather cleared the first acre with an axe and a mule.

My grandfather built the operation into something real.

My father expanded it until his back gave out at fifty-two.

Now it's mine. The weight of it sits on my shoulders every morning when I wake up and every night when I finally stop.

I spot my mother's Subaru parked next to the equipment shed, dust coating the blue paint. She's standing by the tailgate, a basket in her hands, chatting up Hank like they're at a church social instead of a working logging site.

"Everett James Cole." She beams when she sees me, which means I'm in trouble. Mama only full-names me when she wants something.

"Morning." I accept the muffin she shoves at me. Blueberry. Still warm. Damn it. "What do you need?"

"Can't a mother visit her only son at his place of employment?"

"She can. She doesn't." I take a bite. The muffin is perfect because my mother is incapable of making bad baked goods. "Spit it out."

Mama sighs, setting the basket on the tailgate. "I need you to come to the festival committee meeting tonight."

"No."

"Everett—"

"I gave you lumber for the vendor booths. I donated to the flower fund. I'm not sitting in a room with Marge Patterson while she argues about bunting for two hours."

"It's not about bunting."

"It's always about bunting."

Hank coughs into his fist, failing to hide his grin. I shoot him a look. He suddenly finds something fascinating about the tree line.

Mama plants her hands on her hips. She's five foot nothing with silver hair and the stubbornness of a woman who raised a son alone after my father retired to the recliner and his regrets. I love her. I also know exactly what she's doing.

"This is about the room situation," I say.

Her expression flickers. Just a second. "I don't know what you mean."

"The festival booked every room in town. You mentioned it four times last week."

"Did I?"

"You're trying to set me up with some tourist, aren't you?"

"Everett." She presses a hand to her chest. "I would never."

"You tried to set me up with the mailwoman last month."

"She was lovely."

"She was sixty-three."

"Age is just a number."

I finish the muffin because wasting Mama's baking is a sin, even when she's scheming. "I'm not going to the meeting. I've got a county inspection coming up, and I need to pull the compliance records from Dad's files."

That stops her. "Inspection?"

"Some new regulations. The county's sending someone to audit the timber sales and environmental impact." I dust the crumbs off my hands. "Probably nothing. But I want the paperwork in order."

Mama frowns. "Cole Timber has been operating legally since before you were born."

"I know."

"Your grandfather planted more trees than he ever cut. We've always managed this land right."

"I know, Mama."

She studies me with those sharp blue eyes that miss nothing. "You're worried."

I grab another muffin from the basket. "Just busy."

The lie taste stale, but she doesn't push. Just pats my arm and tells me to eat lunch today, then climbs back in her Subaru and leaves a dust cloud behind her.

Hank ambles over, thumbs hooked in his belt. "County inspection?"

"Letter came last week. Environmental compliance review."

"We're compliant."

"I know."

"So why do you look like someone pissed in your coffee?"

Because my father's record-keeping was garbage. Because three generations of doing things the right way doesn't mean a damn thing if the paperwork doesn't prove it. Because the logging industry is hanging by a thread, and one bad audit could give them an excuse to shut me down.

I don't say any of that. I just grab my saw and head back to work.

The county truck rolls up at four in the afternoon, when I'm covered in sweat and bar oil and in absolutely no mood for bureaucracy.

I spot it from the ridge where I'm marking trees for next month's cut. A white pickup with a government seal on the door, kicking up dust on the access road. I radio Hank to meet them at the office, but by the time I hike down, the truck is parked and whoever's inside is already out.

I stop at the edge of the clearing.

She's standing by the office door, clipboard in hand, frowning at the building like it personally offended her.

Long legs in cargo pants. Auburn hair pulled back, a few strands escaping around her face.

Brand-new hiking boots that have never seen a trail.

She's wearing a county-issued polo that does nothing to hide the curves underneath, and when she turns to face me, her eyes are the color of whiskey in firelight.

Hazel. Sharp. Currently narrowed at me like I'm a problem she's here to solve.

"Mr. Cole?"

"Who's asking?"

She doesn't flinch. "Rowan Cafferty. Environmental Compliance Office." She extends her hand. Her grip is firm. Professional. Her palm is soft. Not a callus in sight. "I'm here to conduct the audit of your timber operations."

"You're early."

"I'm on time. Your letter said four o'clock."

"My letter said this week. I was expecting more notice."

"The county doesn't give notice." She flips open her clipboard, scanning something I can't see. "It allows for manipulation of records."

I feel my jaw tighten. "Are you accusing me of something?"

"I'm following protocol, Mr. Cole." She looks up at me with those hazel eyes, and I realize two things simultaneously.

One, she's not intimidated by me. At all.

And two, my body doesn't care that she just implied I'm a criminal.

It's too busy noticing the curve of her mouth, the flush on her cheeks from the afternoon heat, the way her throat moves when she swallows.

Goddamn it.

"I'll need access to your sales records for the past five years," she says. "Timber harvest plans, environmental impact assessments, and any correspondence with the state forestry department."

"I can get you the last three years. The older files are in storage."

"Then I'll need access to storage."

"It's at my cabin."

One eyebrow lifts. "Convenient."

"It's where my father kept everything. He ran the operation for thirty years before me. Forgive him for not anticipating that some city girl in fresh boots would need to rifle through his filing cabinets."

The flush on her cheeks deepens. "I'm not a city girl."

"Portland?"

Her mouth tightens. "Oregon, yes. But—"

"Concrete jungle."

"It's not—" She stops. Takes a breath. The clipboard creaks in her grip. "Mr. Cole. I'm here to do a job. You can make this easy, or you can make this difficult. But either way, the audit is happening."

I should back down. I know I should. This woman has the power to make my life hell. To drag Cole Timber through months of reviews and paperwork and legal fees. To find some technicality in my father's sloppy records and use it as a noose.

But she's standing there with her chin lifted and her eyes blazing, looking at me like I'm the villain in her story, and something in my chest catches fire.

"How long are you here for?" I ask.

"As long as it takes."

"Where are you staying?"

She hesitates. Just a flicker. "That's not your concern."

"It's a small town. Everything's my concern.

" I take a step closer. She holds her ground, but I see her breath catch.

See the way her eyes drop to my chest for just a second before snapping back to my face.

"Festival's got every room in the county booked solid.

So where exactly are you planning to sleep, Ms. Cafferty? "

Her jaw sets. "I'll figure it out."

"You haven't figured it out."

"I said—"

"You've got nowhere to stay." I should not be enjoying this. I should not be noticing the way her lips part when she's frustrated, or the fact that she smells like coffee and something floral. "Came all the way out here to shut me down, and you didn't even book a room."

"I'm not here to shut you down. I'm here to ensure compliance with—"

"Sure." I pull off my work gloves, tucking them in my back pocket. "Office is unlocked. Records from the last three years are in the filing cabinet. You can start there while I figure out what to do with you."

"Do with me?"

I'm already walking toward the main building. "Can't have the county's compliance officer sleeping in her truck, can I?"

"I wasn't going to—"

"Ms. Cafferty." I stop. Turn back. She's standing in the same spot, clipboard clutched to her chest like armor, the afternoon sun catching the red in her hair. My throat goes dry. "Welcome to Whisper Vale. Try not to destroy my livelihood before dinner."

I head inside before she can respond. Before I can do something stupid like offer her a place to stay. Before I can notice anything else about the way she looks at me, all fire and stubborn pride.

She came here to ruin me.

So why the hell can't I stop thinking about her mouth?