Ravaged By the Lumberjack (Sexy Lumbersnacks #13)

1. Dean

DEAN

The first thing I do in any bar is count the exits.

It's not something I think about anymore—it just happens.

Some people check their phone when they sit down, or glance at a menu. I walk in and my brain starts mapping: two exits, back door past the pool tables and the main door I came through.

Awareness of your surroundings is key. There’s four stools open at the bar and a couple of booths along the wall. A jukebox glows in the corner, playing some country song about a beer and a girl and a Friday night. A burly guy nurses a pitcher at a high-top.

Behind the counter, the bartender dries a glass. He’s in his mid-fifties and looks as if he's heard every sad story this town's got and stopped caring a while ago.

Fifteen years of walking into rooms where I don't know anyone—without planning to stick around long enough to change that—will wire you like this.

I’m always assessing, ready for anything. Mostly to make sure I can take off at the drop of a hat.

The Rustic Ridge is exactly the kind of bar I'd expect in a town called Deepwood Mountain, Montana.

Exposed timber beams line the ceiling, antler chandeliers drop from strategic spots above, and a mounted elk head watches everyone from the far wall with judgmental glass eyes.

The stools are worn smooth from years of denim and drunken decisions.

And it smells like pine and spilled beer, soaked into the very foundation over the years.

It's perfectly fine. It's a bar. I'm not here to critique the atmosphere.

I'm here because in two days I start the first permanent job I've had since I was nineteen years old, and my nerves have gotten to me.

Not visibly. But inside, there's a tremor that won't quit. It’s been going since I crossed into Gallatin County this afternoon, my truck loaded with everything I own, which fits in the bed with room to spare…and isn't that a depressing inventory of thirty-five years on the planet.

"What'll it be?"

The bartender's got a rag in his hand, already half-turned toward the taps. He’s efficient and doesn't give a fuck about small talk. I respect that.

"Whatever's on draft. Doesn't matter."

He pours me something amber with bubbles and a foamy head, and slides it across the countertop.

I take a long pull and set it down and tell myself this is it. One drink to settle the nerves and get the lay of the land. Then I’ll go back to the motel, get some sleep, and show up Monday morning like a man who's got his shit together.

Connor Leigh, the owner of the Timber Run Eco-Historical Lumberjack Camp is either the best judge of character I've ever met or the worst. Jury's still out.

I mean, the man did his homework—knew about my assault charge, the eighteen months, the drifting.

He knew I've spent the last fourteen years collecting seasonal paychecks and fake names the same way some people collect stamps.

And he looked me dead in the eye on a video call and said, "Everyone deserves a shot at starting over. Question is whether you're ready to take it."

I said yes before I could talk myself out of it.

Unfortunately, I haven't stopped second-guessing myself since.

Because the thing about starting over is that it requires you to believe you're worth the trouble. And I've never had that much self-respect.

I take another drink. The beer's decent. And that elk is starting to grow on me.

"Mind if I?"

I glance sideways. The voice is feminine and a little breathless, like she just came in from outside, and the woman attached to it is—

Christ.

She's gesturing at the empty stool next to me, in heels and a short dark dress that's doing things I'm not prepared for on a random Saturday night. The fabric catches the light when she moves and clings to curves that make my brain stall out mid-thought. Her hair's down, and it’s a pale gold, falling past her shoulders in soft waves. She’s pretty in that girl-next-door way.

Not sharp or polished. And her warm brown eyes actually look at you instead of past you.

The next thing I notice is that she's young. Not dangerously young, but young enough that a decent man would probably keep his eyes on his beer and let her find someone who isn't hauling around a decade and a half of damage.

I've never claimed to be a decent man.

She smiles, and a dimple appears on her left cheek, and I have the sudden urge to kiss it.

I shake it off. "You old enough to be drinkin’ in a bar, honey?"

It comes out before I can stop it—half flirt, half genuine question.

She doesn't miss a beat, just gives me a look that's equal parts amused and unimpressed.

“I’m twenty-two. And you’re old enough to know better than to call a woman you don’t know honey.” She slides onto the stool and catches the bartender's eye. "Whiskey sour, please." Then she turns back to me, eyebrow raised.

My bad. “My apologies, Miss.”

She shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t mind.” And there's that dimple again. The little devil. "I'm Kaylee." She extends her hand. Her grip is warm and firm and she holds it a beat longer than a handshake requires.

Then I come to the fork in the road.

I could tell her the truth.

I could say: My name's Dean Archer, I have a criminal record, and on Monday I start work somewhere in this town.

I'm terrified I'm going to screw it up. I'm terrified I already am, sitting here next to you, since you're the kind of woman I should stay far away from—not because you're dangerous, but because I am.

"Tom," I finally offer. "Nice to meet you, Kaylee."

The name comes out easily, practiced. And I hate how easy it is.

But this is a small town. People talk. If she Google’s my real name, she finds the conviction in thirty seconds.

She mentions it to a friend, who mentions it to someone else, who mentions it to a guest at the camp, and suddenly my new boss is defending his decision to hire a felon before I've logged a single hour of work.

Connor took a risk on me. I'm not going to make him regret it before I've even started.

"Tom," she repeats, like she's trying it on. "You look like a Tom."

“And what’s that?”

"I don't know. Kind of..." She waves her hand at my face. "Rugged. Handsome. Dependable. Like you'd know how to change a tire and wouldn't make a big deal about it."

"That might be the most flattering thing anyone's ever said to me."

"That's a little sad, Tom."

"Yeah, well. Set the bar low enough and everything's a compliment."

She chuckles, but her eyes tell me she’s logging the self-deprecating crap. "So what brings you to the thriving metropolis of Deepwood?" she asks, leaning one elbow on the bar. Up close, those brown eyes have flecks of pale gold in them, the same shade as her hair.

"Contract work. Timber stuff." I shrug, keeping it vague. "Just passing through before a job starts up north. What about you?"

"I work in hospitality." She takes a sip of her whiskey sour. "Lots of pretending things don't bother me and remembering people's kids' names."

"Sounds exhausting."

"Oh, it is. But I'm weirdly good at it. I think it's because I actually like people. Most of the time." She smiles.

"Where were you before here?"

"Eastern Montana. Little town I guarantee you've never heard of.

A place where the highlight of the year is the county fair and everyone knows your business before you do.

" She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Not unlike here, really. I guess I like the way small towns feel.

I moved here two years ago for a job. Hadn't really planned to stay, but then I kind of.

..I don't know, fell into everything. Found my people.

And now I can't imagine leaving." She catches herself, cheeks coloring slightly. “Sorry, that’s—more than you probably wanted to know.”

“Sounds like just the right amount.” I give her a crooked smile.

She returns it, and god, that dimple. “Most people ask that question and don't really want the full answer. They want you to say, 'Oh, I'm from here,' so they can move on to talking about themselves."

"I'm not most people."

She studies me for a second. "No," she says, quieter now. "I'm starting to think you're not."

And I should leave that alone. Should let it be a nice moment and pivot to something safer.

Instead, I lean a little closer and say, "For the record, you couldn't pay me to go to a county fair."

"No? Not even for the corn dogs?"

I move back quickly. “The corn dogs are that good, huh?”

"All of the deep-fried stuff is amazing. Corn dogs, Oreos, butter—"

"They deep-fry butter?"

"On a stick. As God intended." She's grinning now, fully turned toward me on her stool. "There's also a Ferris wheel that was probably last inspected in 2000, if you’re lucky, and a livestock tent that reeks like—” She grimaces. “Sorry, I'll spare you.”

"Too late. I'm already imagining it."

"You're not imagining it bad enough, trust me." She shudders dramatically, and I laugh…a sound that surprises me on the way out.

Her eyes light up.

I shouldn't be noticing that.

We're on our second round of drinks when she tells me about the time she tried to chop firewood and nearly put it through the kitchen window of her apartment.

The way she tells it—earnestly, self-deprecating, and complete with sound effects—has me gripping the edge of the bar trying to hold it together.

"It wasn't even close to the wood," she says, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. "It just, whoosh, flew out of my hand. The neighbors thought I was being attacked. Someone called 911."

"What, really?”

"I was chopping wood at eleven o'clock at night, in my pajamas, on the back porch! I looked insane."

"You were insane. Who chops wood in pajamas?"

"Someone who was very cold and very stubborn and deeply committed to not turning on the heater since it makes a weird noise. I'm convinced it's going to explode."

“I’ll have to teach you the proper way to chop wood,” I say, before I can catch myself. I shouldn’t be saying things that imply a future.