Chapter 2
2
Grace
“ H ey, let me go!” I howl at the top of my lungs. “Ouch, you’re hurting me!”
Of course, the lumberjack doesn’t let go at all. But he does loosen his grip so that it’s not an iron vise around my upper arm.
“Who the fuck are you?” he growls, brows lowering over piercing blue eyes. I can’t help but notice that he’s even more gorgeous up close. Scary, but impossibly magnetic with those rough-hewn features and thick black beard.
“Who the fuck are you ?” I scream right back, outraged at being manhandled. I shake my arm, trying to loosen it from his grasp, but if anything, his fingers tighten. “You go first!”
The mountain man scowls at me.
“This is my property. I have every right to be here. Now again: who the fuck are you ?”
The game of “who are you’s” is kind of funny in a way, but then a dark thought crosses my mind. The truth is that I don’t have a clear idea of where the Treadwell property lines begin and end. The forest ranges far and wide, and I’ve always considered the trees and land to be “mine” in a way. It’s the inspiration of nature, and the smell of pine in the air. All natural resources belong to all of humanity on some level, even if the government technically has the right to put down property lines.
But still, this man doesn’t have to behave like such a brute. I glare at him, finally shaking my arm free.
“I’m Grace,” I say in a snarky tone. “Your turn.”
He rolls his eyes, rubbing his square jaw.
“I’m Braden,” he rumbles. “Now what the fuck are you doing here?”
I wonder where to begin. Should I go with the truth? Reluctantly, I provide at least a semblance of it.
“I live here,” I say in a haughty tone. “Not here , here, but close enough.”
“Where exactly?” he demands immediately, those dark brows drawing downwards in an ominous frown. Oh shit, I’ve said the wrong thing.
“I live a little ways away,” I say slowly. “Why? The Treadwells own this land. That’s my family. We’re ... uh, farmers. We farm. I’m responsible for overseeing our crop.”
The man isn’t impressed.
“Your crop,” he repeats in a slow voice. “And what would you be growing, may I ask? Carrots? Tomatoes? Onions?”
“Yes, all of that and even more!” I reply with a bright smile that’s all too fake. “It’s summer now so my squash looks great! Green and yellow, some shaped like pumpkins and some with straight necks. Even gourd-shaped too. If you want to come around for some squash soup, feel free to stop by,” I babble while beginning to edge away. “You can find me just over that hill,” I add, already beginning to trot off in the opposite direction. “No need to call beforehand!”
But the lumberjack won’t be deterred. In a second, he has my arm back in that iron grip as he glowers down on me. This time, his blue eyes are searing as he looks at me with disgust.
“Oh really,” he drawls in a sarcastic tone. “Am I really supposed to believe that a young girl lives halfway up the hill in the middle of nowhere, growing vegetables to survive? I wasn’t born yesterday, sweetheart.”
I smile weakly while subtly trying to tug at my arm. The lumbering giant is at least a foot taller than me, and probably weighs a hundred pounds more. I’m a puny dwarf compared to him, but it makes me feel good because as a curvy girl, I’ve always struggled with my size. With my big breasts, wide hips, and thick thighs, I’ve always carried more weight than my contemporaries, and it sometimes makes me self-conscious. But not now. Next to the mountain man, I’m positively tiny.
Still, being small is a negative in this case because it prevents me from fighting back.
“Right,” I mutter while staring at the ground. “Maybe I grow some other things too. But it’s all legal! We have licenses and everything.”
“Okay, so you’re growing pot,” the lumberjack states, his black brows drawn in a straight line.
I sigh, my shoulders slumping.
“Okay, yeah. My family owns Treadwell Cannabis and I’m the farm manager. But again, everything is above-board. We’re registered with the state, and we have all the right papers. I oversee our growing operations, and we’re not that big, actually. Seriously, it’s peanuts compared to some of the industrial giants out there.”
The man gets a rueful look on his face.
“I never thought I’d hear the words “cannabis” and “industrial giant” in the same sentence, but there you go,” he rumbles. “The legalization of pot has definitely modified the market landscape.”
He sounds intelligent and oddly knowledgeable, so I shoot him a suspicious glance.
“Why, what do you know about the industry?” I ask. “Again, my family’s running a legit operation. Cannabis is legal in California, and not just for medicinal purposes either. Recreational use by adults is fine.”
The man nods, his expression neutral.
“That’s right,” he says in a smooth tone. “And everyone growing pot in California is duly licensed and totally legit. So tell me: what kind of license does your family have?”
Oh shit.
“There are different types?” I venture in a slow voice.
He nods, unamused.
“Yes. There are different licenses for different purposes. There isn’t a blanket certification that covers everything. There’s a license for indoor growth, another for outdoor growth, manufacture, distribution, retail, and a whole host of other activities. I’m sure you’re familiar with the details.”
I swallow hard but summon a confident facade with a tilt of my chin.
“You know what? I’ll have to ask my brother or dad because they’re the brains behind the operation. Again, I’m just the grower. I oversee the plants and make sure they get the nutrients they need before we harvest and sell. Again, we’re totally legit, and licensed by the DCC.”
“I’m sure your brother and dad have all the answers,” the man says in a dry voice. “I’m sure they have all the right licenses, plural, and the DCC is completely aware of your operations and sales.”
Oh shit. This man sounds really knowledgeable, and I try to maintain my composure while smiling up at him.
“I’m sure they do,” I say quickly. “Again, I’m with Treadwell Farms, and you can look them up on the DCC’s website. We’re listed! I’ve searched myself, and we’re definitely there.”
“Good, because I will,” the man drawls. “But in the meantime, I want to see your operation. I own this land,” he states in a firm tone that brooks no opposition. “And if you’re growing pot on what’s actually my property, then I want to know. Because that would be illegal. Because you’d be hauled off to jail if you are. Hell, your family could lose everything,” he says in a casual voice, like it means nothing to him.
“You wouldn’t,” I gasp.
His blue eyes glint from far above me.
“Try me, Grace Treadwell,” he says in a smooth tone. “I absolutely would because I don’t give a shit about you or your family.”
My cheeks color because this tyrant is so fucking cruel! I hate him already. In fact, I want to smack him in the face before turning and scrambling down the hill at top speed. Yet I want to kiss him as well because the lumberjack is godawful handsome, even if he’s behaving like an ass. He’s got ruffled black hair, a thick beard, and shoulders so broad that he resembles a tank. His bare chest is bronzed and ripped with muscle, showing off thick, slab-like pecs and defined abs. Best of all, there’s a trail of hair leading down from his tight stomach into the waistband of his jeans, and I swallow as my eyes follow the dark arrow. Oh my god, what’s down there? He’s bound be huge and my mouth waters as my fingers twitch involuntarily, my imagination running wild. But then, the man’s voice jolts me back to reality.
“Ready to go?” he drawls, blue eyes amused like he can read my mind. “Take me to your leader, sweet princess. Since we’ve already established that you’re not a criminal trespasser.”
I flush with embarrassment because he just caught me checking him out! My nipples tingle as awareness runs through my sweetest spot, but to hide my humiliating reaction, I whirl on my heels and immediately begin stalking off down the forest path.
“You don’t have anything to be worried about!” I call over one shoulder. “My family’s farm is legit and we’re growing on our property, not yours.”
“No doubt,” the lumberjack drawls in a sarcastic voice. “But let’s just make sure, shall we?”
I can feel his hulking presence at my heels because it’s obvious this man has no trouble keeping up, given his long strides ... and even worse, I have a feeling he’s caught me in a trap.