The Lumberjack’s Wedding Fling (Mountain Man’s Fake Wedding Date: Wedding Season #9)

1. Claire

Claire

“Claire. We’ve got a chainsaw-vs-forearm in Seven. Patient is stable but I need you to consult.”

“Be there in two.”

The Shark Tank was dubbed such years ago, and now it’s decorated with aquarium memorabilia. On my first day, the nursing staff gifted me a stuffed shark. Their station is The Hive. Makes this hard job more fun.

It has been a beast of a day. Although I’m mid-shift, I don’t see me heading home on time tonight.

Tomorrow is opening day for the Cobalt County Antiques Fair, one of the largest outdoor antique festivals in the country.

More than 100,000 people will be visiting our county over the next seven days, bringing heat exhaustion, illnesses, and injuries with them.

I scrub my hands and arms at the wash station before sliding on my gown and mask, the fluorescent lighing bright overhead.

Chainsaw wounds can be splattery, so I add a face shield before heading to Bay Seven.

No point in being unprepared. As I walk, Brahms’ Lullaby plays over the PA system.

Something tightens in my chest until I force it down and focus on the new little life that someone gets to have.

I stand in front of the patient’s the curtain and silently count to ten, then step inside, where Isaac Lopez, one of Northwest General’s best nurses, is swapping out blood-soaked gauze over a nasty wound. The rhythmic beat of the heart monitor is strong.

A shredded flannel shirt lies crumpled on the chair, one sleeve scissored away by the paramedics. Work boots, caked with mud and wood chips, sit beneath the gurney.

Then I do a double take at the shirtless man laying on the table.

Hunter-hot-as-sin-Ashe.

The best man to my maid of honor role at my friend’s upcoming wedding, and one of the sexiest men on the planet. Heat crawls up my neck. I’ve seen hundreds of shirtless men on hospital beds, and it’s never affected me. But Hunter’s body isn’t clinical.

He’s a lumberjack with miles of muscle, sun-bronzed skin, and the kind of build you get from swinging axes, not workout in gyms. Right now, he’s showcasing them as he lies on the bed, one forearm covering his eyes while his other arm is being worked on by Isaac.

The way his abs flex when he shifts, how his chest rises and falls, the V-cut of muscle disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans? My mouth goes dry.

The first and only time I saw Hunter was two weeks ago at Esme’s wedding party brunch, where Hunter and I were introduced.

My hormones did a quick shout of yes! at meeting the guy Esme says is perfect for a hookup, so I steered as clear of him as possible.

Apparently, Hunter’s wife died ten years ago while they were trying to start a family.

Since then, he plays the field. I’m not looking for a one-and-done, and children are probably not in the cards for me, so why start something that would never work?

Derek couldn’t handle the surrogacy conversation when I finally had it.

Said it was “too much planning” for something that should be “natural.” That’s when I knew he and I would never work.

He didn’t understand—or want to understand—that my advanced endometriosis will likely make carrying a child impossible. That’s why I froze my eggs.

Hunter wanted a family at some point. I’m not putting myself through the pain of a surrogacy conversation again with someone who’s already grieving the family he tried to build.

I mentally tick through the list of available plastic surgeons on call, but I can’t justify not doing this consult for Bodhi. He’s already prepping for surgery.

Pulling on gloves, my voice is calm yet firm. “Hunter Ashe, I’m Dr. Elliott. We met at Esme’s Pre-Game Luncheon.” It’s good to get the awkwardness out of the way, especially in front of my team.

Hunter yanks his arm away from his eyes, jaw tight, his pupils slightly pinned from the morphine but his pain still evident.

His expression shows the same shock I had at seeing him.

His light brown hair is cut shorter, his hazel eyes looking blue in this light.

Sawdust clings to the scruff along his jaw, and even through the sharp sting of antiseptic, I catch the faint scent of pine resin and woodsmoke.

The pulse oximeter beeps as Isaac looks up from dressing the wound. “You two are in Esme’s wedding?” The irony of our situation isn’t lost on me.

Hunter’s eyebrow quirks up, holding my gaze instead of looking at Isaac. “I’m Franklin’s best man.”

“Wow. What a small world,” Isaac says with a tiny smirk from the rolling stool.

“And you’re the maid of honor, right?” Isaac knows full well that I am.

Esme works here as a pediatric radiologist. I don’t need reminders that Hunter and I will be orbiting each other for the next two months with fittings, parties, and all the rest of those unavoidable best man and maid of honor duties.

Isaac also knows that Esme’s been talking Hunter up to me since her engagement.

Hunter emits a quiet laugh, and I shoot Isaac a mind your business look as I switch places with him at Hunter’s bedside.

All it takes is one look at the wound to flip into work mode. “Tell me what happened.”

“I was using a chainsaw on a log that looked clean. It struck an old nail that caused kickback. That nail head was deep in there.” He winces as I remove the dressing to take a look, the meds not quite kicking in yet. “Better me than one of my guys.”

The words dangle like a truth hanging just out of reach. Of course Hunter shields his crew. Of course he’s the kind of man who steps between danger and everyone else, who takes the hit so someone else doesn’t have to.

Isaac steps toward the curtain. “I’ll grab a fresh tray from supply. Be right back.”

Before I can respond, he’s already disappearing through the curtain, leaving the room quieter than it should feel.

“Claire.”

Hunter’s gruff voice stops me mid-motion. He’s watching me with a focused intensity like he’s been waiting for the room to empty. “You always this controlled when people are bleeding on your table?”

The man is hooked to an IV and has a serious injury, yet he somehow finds the strength to taunt me?

“It’s called doing my job.”

My hands tighten within my gloves, the room suddenly warmer. I stand in my pressed white coat, hair tight, hands sterile, and everything controlled. Hunter’s all rough edges, dragging something raw and dangerous into my carefully ordered world.

“What happens when you’re not in control, Doc?” He shifts on the table, revealing a pale line at his hipbones where his jeans, streaked with bark dust, sit low.

My stomach drops as something sharp flickers under my ribs. Does he even know what he’s asking? The way his eyes track my face and linger on my mouth suggests he does. I straighten, finding my professional footing despite recognizing the challenge in his eyes for exactly what it is.

Esme never should have tried to hook me up with Hunter. Her fiancé probably did the same with him!

I attempt to shift the conversation. “You’ve had morphine. I wouldn’t trust your judgment right now.”

He huffs a dry laugh, his lip curling to one side. “I’ve had worse than morphine.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s not meant to be.” His eyes track me, steady. “You look like someone who’s always the one holding everything together.”

I stop for half a beat too long before responding. “And you look like someone who thinks he can diagnose strangers in under a minute.”

That finally earns a hint of a smile. Small. Controlled. Gone quickly.

“Not strangers,” he says. “You introduced yourself to me two weeks ago. Wedding luncheon. You were doing a lot of watching.” The teasing edge in his voice softens for just a second, something almost vulnerable flickering across his face

I blink once. “That’s not what happened.”

“Pretty sure it is.” Now he’s at a full-on smirk, his dimples evident through his scruff.

The air between us thickens. His eyes drop to my mouth, then drag back up slowly, deliberate, dangerous.

My pulse kicks against my throat. For three seconds, maybe four, the monitors and fluorescent lights fade away, and it’s just him watching me like he’s already decided something I haven’t agreed to yet.

The curtain shifts open, and Isaac reenters with the supplies, a large man following him in.

“Hey, man.” The visitor winces at Hunter’s injury as he moves to Hunter’s bedside, squeezing his good shoulder. “Declan told me what happened. You doing alright?”

The man scans the room, his eyes flicking to me before returning to Hunter.

This man looks to be maybe ten years older than me, early forties probably, a little gray at his temples and his tanned body sculpted. A Wilder Industries emblem is embroidered on his fitted black polo shirt. Hunter’s boss, maybe?

“Pain’s not too bad.” He twirls two fingers in a zig-zag motion. “Morphine.”

The man chuckles before introducing himself from the opposite side of the hospital bed. “Luke Wilder.”

“Claire Elliott.” I nod, the weight of too many bodies in too small a space pressing in. “Let’s take a look at the damage.”

An uneasiness blooms inside my chest as I carefully peel back the blood-soaked gauze.

Hunter’s breath hitches, his jaw tight, as I examine his injury.

The skin is jagged, his tendons possibly nicked.

I gently probe the edges of the laceration with gloved fingers, the metallic scent of blood mingling with antiseptic as I lean in to assess the damage.

His skin is warm under my touch, even through the latex.

His forearm is corded with muscle, veins prominent from years of gripping tools.

The cut runs deeper than it should, the tissue left uneven, as if the blade didn’t pass cleanly through.

There’s likely tendon damage, possibly bone involvement—X-rays will confirm. It’s going to take time to fix.

“Am I going to live, Doc?” Hunter sends me a flirty smile that goes straight to my loins.

“Yes, you’re going to live. We just need to clean things up and ensure your tendons and ligaments are intact.”

Hunter holds up the palm of his good arm, revealing a faint scar running along its center. “This isn’t my first dance with a chainsaw, Doc.”

“Noted.” I stand, removing my gloves and tossing them into receptacle along with my face shield.

The piercing look he gives me is almost predatory, like he’s daring me to touch him. To trace that scar with my finger and see what happens. My hand twitches at my side before I can stop it, and his mouth curves.

He saw that. Damn it.

Bodhi steps in just as Isaac replaces the gauze. “It’s a little more than stitching you up, but Dr. Elliott has incredible technique. She might even be able to salvage some of that tattoo.”

“If her technique is good, maybe she can add her number while she’s in there.” My ears heat.

Luke chuckles, clearing his throat and changing the subject. “Your mom and sister are on their way.”

Bodhi glances at the wound, then at the monitors. “An OR is being prepped now. We’ll get you wheeled up to pre-op.” To Luke he adds, “You can go up there with him.”

“Thanks, man.”

“See you up there.”

I exit the room without a word and head straight to the Doc Station, stopping right outside the glass. Twenty minutes ago, this would’ve been just another consult. Now I’m exactly the kind of compromised I swore I’d never be.

“In an abundance of caution, Dr. Kapoor has to take this procedure. I’m not doing it.” Vikram Kapoor is Chief of Ortho and an outstanding surgeon.

Bodhi regards me for a second before nodding, no questions asked. “Understood.”

After we catch Dr. Kapoor up to speed on Hunter’s injuries, both surgeons head upstairs while I head to the physician’s lounge to clear my head.

After two cups of coffee and some charting, my phone buzzes with a text from Esme.

Esme: Heard Hunter’s in surgery. You operating?

Me: News travels fast in this hospital.

Esme: Always.

Me: Not operating. He told me I was watching him at the luncheon and then hit on me through a morphine haze. Conflict of interest.

Esme: Claire. He’s PERFECT for you. Don’t run.

Me: [Homer Simpson backing into bushes GIF]

Esme: CLAIRE.

Me: Too. Late.

Then I silence my phone and shove it in my locker.