7. Aspen
CHAPTER SEVEN
ASPEN
I t’s rare for me to be rendered speechless, but oh my . Ambrose saying he would go full scorched earth to keep me safe by his side has my lady bits screaming for attention.
Before I can melt into a puddle of goo at his feet, I place my hand in Ambrose’s.
With a cocky smile on his lips, he escorts me from the bedroom. Normally, a strange man holding my hand would have me yanking it back. Not true with Ambrose. My skin has decided it likes to be touched by this rugged man, and how I wouldn’t mind him touching more of me.
Wow, Aspen. Get a grip on your ovaries before you do or say something stupid to scare this man off.
“You must be starving after the shit day you’ve dealt with,” Ambrose says with an apologetic tone. “Let me feed you.”
My stomach rumbles in approval. If food were a love language, it would be mine. A man cooking a meal for me is a total green flag.
“Hope you like chili. I made a ton.”
“I love chili,” I admit, my mouth already salivating in expectation.
He nods before he abruptly stops short to face me, worry creasing his brow. “Crap. I didn’t consider it while making the meal. You’re not a vegetarian, are you? There’s venison in the chili.”
Concerned about my dietary needs? Oh, he’s considerate. Another green flag.
“I’m not,” I say quickly to put his anxiety to rest. “And I’m not sure it would matter at the moment, since I’m famished.”
“Good.” He guides me toward the kitchen island, pulling out a barstool for me. For being rough around the edges, Ambrose certainly knows how to treat a lady. Green flag, again.
As Ambrose busies himself grabbing bowls and spoons out of the cupboards and drawers, I study him. He’s definitely not the chainsaw murderer I feared when I first woke in his house—just a smoking hot lumberjack-looking dude playing host to my sorry butt.
My face heats with shame as I consider how invasive I’ve been toward Ambrose in my brief stay under his roof. Sneaking around his house after I woke, letting myself into his private bathroom while he was using it, and then not retreating when I saw him working the steel pipe between his legs. I shouldn’t have watched him, or at least made my presence known way sooner.
There’s only one walking red flag in this cabin, and it’s me.
Current events paint me in a horrid light. I’ve been a rude, perverted brat.
Embarrassed, I rub at my brow. I want to hide my face with what I’m about to say to Ambrose. But I can’t avoid this. He deserves a proper apology.
“I’m sorry I threw your carved decoy at your head.”
His soft chuckle warms my chest. He walks to the oven, pulling out a loaf of bread before removing it from the pan to cool on the cutting board on the kitchen island. My mouth waters with the scent of fresh sourdough pluming the air.
Giving me a quick glance as he works, Ambrose smiles. “You got one hell of a fast pitch, I’ll give you that.”
Sheepishly, I shrug my shoulders. “High school varsity softball pitcher.”
“Not surprised at all,” he says with an amused laugh.
“Seriously though, Ambrose,” I say, stressing my apology. “I’m sorry.”
He sets the bread-knife down on the cutting board, bowing his head. A deep growl rumbles in his chest.
What’s happening? Did I say something wrong?
A moment later, he lifts his head to me, his gray eyes smoldering.
“I like the way my name sounds coming from your tongue.”
I gulp, feeling my entire body breakout into a hot flush. “Ex-Excuse me?”
Nonchalant, Ambrose picks his knife up and cuts the bread into thick slices.
“Call me Brose—we’re close now,” he says clearly before whispering what I believe is, “Hopefully, a lot closer soon.”
There’s no way I heard him correctly. Perhaps the storm got rainwater in my ears. I’m about to ask him to repeat himself when he continues.
“And there’s no need to say sorry. It’s okay.”
He’s being too kind, and I don’t deserve an easy out. “Hardly.”
“The situation had us both overreacting. It’s not like you took off my head—close call. But, hey, I’m good and so are you. And I can always carve another decoy.”
I sigh, imagining all the hours Brose spent whittling away at a log to make that duck sculpture.
“You see,” he leans toward me with a teasing smile, “I got unlimited access to wood .”
I beg your finest pardon?! Is he referring to what I think he’s referring to? And is he flirting with me?
As if Brose can see the confusion on my face, he clears the air. “I’m a logger by trade.”
Oooh , that explains it. My imagination needs to get out of the gutter. I keep picturing Brose working the giant log between his legs from earlier in the shower. The image is forever burned in my head, playing on a loop. I squeeze my thighs together to stifle the growing ache between my legs.
Brose definitely fits the logger profile—big, muscled, and gruff. Yet, he’s surprisingly hospitable, considering I nearly crushed in his skull. At least he is kind to me. It’s more than I deserve after the way I unloaded on him.
Still embarrassed by my actions, I bury my hands in my lap and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry I walked in on you.”
The corners of Brose’s eyes crinkle as his smile grows wider. “Are you now?”
“Yes,” I say, shame coating my voice. “I should’ve left as soon as I saw you. I guess I was…”
“Pleasantly surprised?” Brose offers with a flirty wink.
“Shocked,” I clarify, my cheeks warming with my discomfort.
His hearty belly laugh fills the room. “Yeah, I bet. I was, too.”
Gosh, this is beyond awkward. It’s not every day you have to apologize for being a peeping Tom.
“It was wrong of me not to leave or alert you I was present,” I say hastily, wanting to get the embarrassment over with. “I’m sorry.”
Brose places a big bowl of chili in front of me, along with a plate with a thick piece of buttered sourdough. His smile slips away as his eyes meet mine, his face now stoic. “I’m not.”
Huh? “You’re not what?”
“I’m not sorry you walked in on me.”
Okay, there really is something wrong with my hearing. No way he said that. I rub at the outside of my ears like I’m trying to clear them before seeking confirmation.
“You’re not mad I invaded your privacy?”
Brose shakes his head, his smile reappearing. He’s got a seriously cute smile—full lips and a slight gap between his two front teeth. It adds a touch of softness to his otherwise rugged features, along with the copper freckles peppering his fair skin. And his gray eyes creasing in the outside corners when he’s smiling, makes him hard to resist.
“It may not be the way I imagined our first interaction taking place after saving you from the storm, but it certainly is memorable.”
I cover my face with my hands. “Oh, gosh. No. Let’s forget it happened, please?”
Gently, Brose pries my hands away from my face, gathering them in his much larger, calloused hands. “No can do. It’s going to make a great story to tell our kids one day.”
I roll my eyes at his absurd response, snickering nervously. “You’re a funny guy.”
“I can be. Though there’s nothing funny about what I said.”
Say what?
He lets go of my hands, nodding at my bowl. “Eat up before it gets cold. What would you like to drink? I got it all. Water, milk, juice, pop, beer, and the heavier stuff.”
Still floundering from him mentioning future kids, I stutter. “Uh, um, water is fine.”
A stiff drink is probably what I need, but I’m already not thinking clearly around this man. He’s spouting nonsense, right?
If Brose claims he’s not joking, he must be referencing our future kids we may have separately. He couldn’t possibly mean children we share. I shake my head to myself, misunderstanding him—again. It’s not like the mountain man could be interested in a future with me. We hardly know each other.
Brose places a tall glass of ice water in front of me before taking the barstool next to me. I pick up my spoon, unable to enjoy the delicious smelling meal before me.
There’s still a lot I want to say to him. The man saved me from a grizzly fate. I need to thank him.
“Brose?”
“Yeah, darlin’?”
Darlin’. His little nickname for me is growing on me. Normally I dislike pet names, seeing them as unnecessary or even degrading. But the term darlin’ in his deep timbre sounds like a soft caress. I like it— a lot .
A flare of annoyance lights up inside of me. He probably talks this way to all the ladies. He seems like the charmer type. And yet, I can’t help hoping it’s reserved for me.
He brushes a wisp of my hair away from my face, his fingers gently cupping my cheek. “Where’d you go just now?”
Taken aback by his ease with which he touches me—like he knows me on an intimate level—my thoughts tumble out of my mouth before I can stop myself.
“Do you call every woman darlin’?”
“No. Ain’t ever felt the need to call any woman anything other than her name.”
My heart leaps. “Except me?”
His gray eyes soften, like he can see it matters to me. “Except you.”
Oh, my heart. If he doesn’t watch himself, I’ll be falling in love with him before the day is done.
Dammit, Aspen. Thank the man already before you stop using your head.
“Brose?”
He cocks his head, his face full of amusement. “More questions?”
“Thank you for saving me.” My voice comes out way more breathy than I expected, but I can barely talk with him close. It’s like my body refuses to behave around him, begging for things I shouldn’t want from a total stranger.
“Darlin’,” Brose croons. He leans forward, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead before pulling back to look deep into my eyes. “I’d scale any mountain to save you again.”
Each word he says is like a direct call to my clit, demanding it to come out of its hood. If I was wearing panties, they’d be soaked with how aroused I am. I pray I don’t leave a wet mark on the stool when I stand.
How is this man real? Scale any mountain to save you . Who talks like that?
Apparently, this ridiculously handsome logger does. No wonder I could never find a decent guy—they’re all hiding in the mountains. It’s like trying to find Sasquatch, only this breed of man is rarer.
“I’m happy I got to you when I did.” Brose shakes his head as if the memory of how he first found me haunts him. “I don’t think you’d have survived had I not shown up.”
“How did you find me? Did Gary tell you where I was?”
At the mention of Gary’s name, Brose sneers. “Gary? Is that your ex?”
I nod my confirmation.
“Fuck that dude. My crew found the little dickwad further down the mountain chained to a diseased tree, spouting Dr. Seuss and ranting about how he wouldn’t let us cut them down.”
Sounds like Gary.
“Your crew?” I question. “Are you a supervisor for a logging company? Explains the chainsaws I heard in the distance when I was on the mountain. It must have been you.”
“Yup. Mine and my brother’s company—O’Mara Timber. Built it from the ground up. And, yes. I’m our first-line logging superintendent on-site.”
“Oh wow,” I say, awed. “You own a logging business and you’re only, what? Thirty…?”
Hopefully, he can’t tell I’m fishing for details and giving away my interest in him.
“Thirty-six,” he answers, watching me closely.
Not too old. I want to slap myself for going there. He will not be interested in someone eight years younger, still in college, and sleeps on a mattress on the floor of a studio apartment.
This man is ahead of the game in his industry for his age.
“To win the bid for felling rights in the Rocky Mountain National Park is impressive.”
Brose’s mouth drops open in mock shock. “Was that a compliment?”
I shove him playfully in the chest, noting how hard and thick his pectorals are. My shove doesn’t move him, not even an inch. He’s all tall, broad, and heavily muscled—absolutely drool worthy.
“What about you?” He nods at me. “You said you were in your last year of your doctoral program at CSU for forest science. You’re in your upper twenties?”
He remembers me saying that when we were, for lack of better words, sparring?
Wow! He’s scoring points all across the board.
“I’m twenty-eight.”
A pleased smirk forms on Brose’s handsome face. Does his smile mean our age-gap is not an issue for him, either? Could he be interested in someone like me?
“Anyway,” Brose says, bringing me back to the moment. “Your ex made a comment about stopping my crew from cutting down the tree he chained himself to and the one further up the mountain. I made the assumption someone else was at the other marked tree. I cut him loose. He got himself knocked out?—”
“Whoa! What? Gary got knocked out? Did you hit him?” I don’t say it, but I secretly hope he did—Gary deserves his ass being handed to him after what he did to me.
“No,” Brose says with a sulk, regret heavy in his tone. “But I wish I had. Fucker has it coming. You can credit the diseased tree—it was a down limb. Fell right on his noggin.”
“Damn,” I mutter bitterly. “I hope it hurt.”
Suppressing a laugh, Brose continues. “He’s fine. I had a few of my men take him to the hospital. Had the rest go home because of the storm.”
Ambrose looks at me, his eyes softening. “And then I went looking for you.”
“You came searching for me in a lightning storm, not knowing if I was there, and put yourself at risk for a stranger?”
His eyes lazily trail over my face. “Worth it.”
A stranger values my life more than my boyfriend— ex boyfriend. Unbelievable!
I already had a low opinion of Gary for chaining me to a tree without my consent. But not mentioning me to Brose or his crew while a storm was rolling in is too much.
Hot tears spring to my eyes. “In all that time Gary argued with you, he never mentioned me once? That…that…UGH! What a dickhead!”
“Forget him, darlin’. He’s not worth your tears,” Brose says in a soothing tone. He catches a tear running down my cheek with his thumb, bringing it to his mouth.
I’m too stunned to speak as I watch his movements.
He didn’t do that, did he? Why would he do that?
If we were lovers, maybe I could see it. But I’m nothing to this man other than some woman he rescued from the storm. It’s too sensual for strangers, and unexpected.
Brose sucks his thumb into his mouth, closing his eyes and humming a sound of content low in his throat.
Fuck, that’s hot.
It takes all of my self control to not moan out loud. The thought of this man getting off on the taste of me has me squeezing my thighs tighter together, afraid I’d spread them open in front of him and beg him to eat his fill.
He pulls his thumb from his mouth with a wet pop , smirking at me like he knows exactly what he doing to me. “Delicious.”
Holy smokes. Is it hot in here or is it me?
“You should eat, Aspen.”
“Eat?” Eat what? Him? I mean, I’m not saying no if he’s on the menu.
Brose turns in his seat, picking up his spoon, and diving into his bowl of chili.
The way he has my emotions jumping all over is equivalent to whiplash. One moment I think he’s hitting on me and the next he’s acting completely aloof.
Discombobulated, I turn toward my bowl, shaking my head to clear it. But there’s no shaking the visceral feelings this mountain man is stirring inside of me.