Teased by the Lumberjack (Sexy Lumbersnacks #11)
1. Teagan
CHAPTER 1
TEAGAN
T he sun filters through the canopy above me, dappling the forest floor like a living mosaic. I inhale deeply—pine, damp earth, and the faint tang of wild bergamot carries on a breeze that teases the loose strands of my single braid.
This stretch of Timber Run’s old-growth hemlocks is untouched, the air thrumming with the chatter of red squirrels and the distant tap-tap-tap of a pileated woodpecker. My fingers brush the furrowed bark of a centuries-old giant as I crouch to inspect a cluster of turkey tail fungi clinging to its base. Their concentric rings tell stories of dry summers and acidic soil.
"Unifaceted growth pattern," I murmur, snapping photos with my phone. "Possible nitrogen deficiency in the?—"
A splash nearby cracks the stillness.
The stream twenty yards downhill isn’t part of my study grid, but trespassing tourists love to leave beer cans and cigarette butts in the shallows. Jaw tightening, I shove my pocket notebook into my cargo pants and march toward the sound, boots sinking into spongy soil. Ferns unfurl fiddleheads against my shins as I push through a thicket of serviceberry bushes, their white blooms shaking loose petals like confetti.
"Listen, buddy," I mutter, shoving aside a curtain of sword ferns with more force than necessary. "If you’re dumping Coors cans in the?—"
Oh.
The naked man is waist-deep in the amber current, water swirling around him as if wanting to showcase such a masterpiece. His back is a topography of muscle—ridged shoulders flexing as he scrubs river water through chestnut-brown hair, streaked with gray, a spine like knotted rope.
He’s built like a Renaissance painting, all corded forearms and taut glutes, the dip of his lower back a shadowed valley my fingers itch to explore. Sunlight gilds the droplets cascading down his skin and my pulse jackrabbits. I should go. Run away. But my stupid traitorous feet stay rooted, heat pooling low in my belly.
He shakes his head, sending water arcing through the air like liquid diamonds, and turns to face me.
Double oh.
For a heartbeat, I’m pinned by crystalline blue eyes framed by laugh lines deeper than glacial striations. A dark beard covers his prominent jawline, shoulders broad enough to bench press a redwood, abs like a washboard, and a magnificent “V” that dips straight into…
Woah…
I’ve never seen one in person. Is that how big they ALL are?
"Enjoying the view, princess ?" His voice is gravel wrapped in velvet, a rumble that vibrates straight through to my hiking boots.
Heat floods my cheeks. "I—you’re—this is a protected watershed!" The words tumble out too loud, echoing off the slate outcroppings. A kingfisher squawks its disapproval from a nearby snag.
One thick brow arches. He doesn’t cover himself. Heck, he doesn’t even blink as water sluices down a scar that bisects his ribs—a pale lightning bolt against sun-kissed skin. "So you’re sayin’ skinny-dipping’s illegal now?"
" Trespassing is." I fumble for authority, arms crossing over my chest like a chastising schoolmarm. "This land is under research jurisdiction through MSU. You need to?—"
"Research, huh?" He gestures lazily at himself, riverwater gleaming as it clings to the trail of dark hair below his navel. "Better take notes, then."
My mouth goes desert-dry. For one mortifying second, I imagine straddling those hips, tasting the iron-rich water beaded on the column of his throat— Stop. STOP. "Y-you’re contaminating the ecosystem." My voice cracks. "Human bacteria could disrupt native microbial communities in the?—"
His laugh booms, scattering chickadees from the alders. "Sweetheart, if my dick’s the biggest threat to this forest, Mother Nature’s got worse problems."
I sputter, torn between outrage and an inconvenient urge to laugh. "Who even are you?"
"Connor Leigh." He sloshes toward the bank, water cascading off… everything. My gaze snags on the flex of quadriceps as he climbs onto a mossy boulder. "And you’re squattin’ on my future business venture."
I avert my eyes. Mostly. The flash of his backside as he towels off with a faded flannel shirt sears itself into my retinas. "There’s no development permitted here. I’ve memorized every zoning code from here to?—"
"Reenactment camp." He yanks faded boxer briefs up those godforsaken hips, the fabric straining. "Historical lumberjack experience. Authentic axe-throwing, log-rolling, that kinda thing." A wink. "Educational."
The words hit like a kick. "What?"
"Got the permits pending." His smirk ignites something dangerous—a spark that threatens to burn down every logical argument I’ve ever crafted. "Plan to break ground in the next three months."
Panic surges, bitter as hemlock sap. "You can’t bulldoze this area! The understory’s nesting grounds for brown creepers, and the mycological networks here are?—"
"Who said anything about bulldozing?" He buttons the flannel with deliberate slowness, veins snaking down forearms thick as cedar branches. "Real lumberjacks work with the land. My granddaddy?—"
"—Would’ve clear-cut this ridge by noon," I snap, adrenaline overriding sense. My boot crushes a fiddlehead fern in my haste to step closer. "Your authentic experience needs trails, outhouses, parking lots. Do you know what compaction does to Russula brevipes colonies? Or how noise pollution impacts barred owl fledglings?"
"Christ, who pissed in your granola?" He steps into my space, pine needles crunching under his worn leather boots. Cedar-and-sweat scent envelops me, primal and earthy. "You’re what, twenty-two? Spoutin’ textbook jargon at someone who’s been knee-deep in these kinds of woods since before you learned to hike?"
"I’m twenty-four," I hiss, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. Bad idea. His eyes are glacier-blue, framed by those crow’s feet that deepen as he scans my face. My lungs forget how to oxygenate. "And I’ve dedicated my life to protecting ecosystems exactly like this. Your little Paul Bunyan Disneyland will destroy seven species of lichen that only grow on these hemlocks."
"Prickly and poetic." He leans in, sunlight catching silver strands in his beard. "Bet that brain’s not the only thing wound tight."
My lips part—in shock? Anger? A mortifying whimper? Behind us, the stream gurgles its amusement. The woodpecker hammers out a staccato laugh.
"You’re impossible," I finally manage, fists clenching at my sides. "Arrogant. Reckless. And?—"
"—Undeniably handsome? Yeah, I get that a lot." His grin widens as I choke. "Relax, Smokey. My crew’s using pre-existing clearings from the ’80s logging roads. No old-growth touched. Happy?"
Lies. Corporate greenwashing 101. I’ve seen this before—developers cherry-picking data, hiding behind phrases like low-impact while mycelium networks die screaming beneath ATV tires.
"Prove it."
His beard twitches. "Pardon?"
"Take me on your damn survey. Show me these pre-existing clearings ." The challenge bursts out, sharp as a snapped twig.
He crosses tree-trunk arms, biceps straining plaid fabric. "Why should I?”
"To document the ecological impact. Or are you scared a prickly grad student’ll find your loopholes?" The words hang between us, a gauntlet thrown.
For a heartbeat, his gaze drops to my mouth. My tongue darts out to wet suddenly parched lips, and his nostrils flare. A charged silence stretches, thick as wildfire smoke.
"Careful." His voice roughens, a low timber that vibrates in my marrow. "Might start thinking you’re following me for the view."
"My name’s Teagan," I say. "And I’d sooner hug a chainsaw."
His laughter is as rich and warm as aged bourbon, my sister Opal’s favorite drink.
"Well, I’m ready whenever you are," he finally says, now dressed and holding his pack.
I blink, surprised. I honestly didn’t expect him to agree to it. “Let me get my bag from my campsite.”
I spin on my heel, nearly tripping over a moss-slick log in my haste.
I can feel his eyes on me as I stalk toward my site, blood roaring louder than Timber Run in the spring thaw.
I’ll shadow his every move.
Expose his plans.
Protect my forest.
Even if his stupid dimples short-circuit my higher brain functions.