Chapter 1 #3
Tall is an understatement; this man looks more than a foot taller than I am, and I’m five foot four.
But more than that, he is wide. Shoulders that seem to go on for miles in the thick red plaid of his coat, a broad chest that stretches the black-knit thermal beneath—it’s like he stepped right out of Lumberjack Weekly, with his trimmed beard and gray beanie with dark curls poking out of it that are just a shade or two darker than his eyes.
I most likely spend a second too long studying the soft-looking mouth that peeks out from his scruff, but honestly, given that this stranger might be one of the most attractive people I have ever seen—and I have seen a lot of people—I think it’s probably excusable.
He comes to a stop right in front of me, and my gaze goes up and up and up, to the point that I’m forced to crane my neck as I gape at this giant of a man.
“You Esther?”
I blink, the abruptness of his question catching me off guard. “Tess.”
“Jeannie said an Esther was coming.”
“Yeah,” I answer. “I go by Tess.”
He shrugs. “Fair enough.”
“Sorry.” I stick out one gloved hand. “I’m the contractor Jeannie hired for the renovations. Do you work here?”
His eyes flick to my outstretched hand, but he doesn’t take it. “Looks that way.”
Jeez. Talk about frosty.
He’s still frowning at my hand, so I draw it back slowly, my eyes lingering on the way his mouth turns down at the corners.
The expression only makes him look more rugged, and I think to myself that he really does give off a lumberjack vibe, albeit a very terse one.
I’m pretty sure there’s a Harlequin romance on my shelf at home that he was the cover model for at some point in his life. All that’s missing is an axe, really.
I can’t help but laugh at that, recalling Ada’s and my conversation about being murdered out here. The guy arches a brow at the giggle that escapes me.
“Something funny?”
I wave my hand in front of my face. “Not unless you think murder is funny.”
“Excuse me?”
“Not, like, actual murder,” I correct, sort of.
“I mean, well, okay, I guess kind of actual murder. My friend made this joke when I was on my way that I was going to get murdered out here, and I was thinking you totally give me lumberjack vibes, and that got me thinking about axes, which got me thinking about the murder again, and—”
I notice he’s staring at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
“This is probably one of those things that should have stayed in my head.”
He continues to frown at me for exactly four more seconds, then: “I’m not gonna argue with you there.”
“Right. Um.” I clear my throat. “Is Jeannie around? I would love to introduce myself in person after all the emails we’ve exchanged.”
“Jeannie’s down the mountain. Had something come up at her place.”
“Oh. When will she be back?”
“Tomorrow, I figure.”
“Oh.”
I don’t really know what else to say to that. This is all going very different from how I pictured, but I guess that’s par for the course, considering how this entire trip has been.
The bear of a man nods toward my car. “You got luggage?”
“Hmm? Oh. Yes. Sorry. I can—”
He sort of grunts in response but says nothing. It surprises me when he steps toward the car to open the back door and grab my bag—so much so that I reach out to try to stop him, which earns me a puzzled look.
“You don’t have to,” I tell him, a little distracted by how dark his eyes look up close. “I can get my things.”
There’s a scent tickling my nose—one that reminds me of rain and sunshine—and I think to myself that it seems terribly out of place here in the snow. Maybe it’s his cologne? It’s really…nice, actually.
He looks from me to the bag and back again—finally shrugging before he releases it to turn and stomp up the steps onto the main deck.
He taps his boots against the last stair, and I’m left to my own devices.
I remember myself after only a few seconds, grabbing my bag and hurrying after him.
He leaves the front door open when he slips inside, disappearing into the warm glow of the lights beyond.
“Sorry,” I offer again as I step in after him. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Didn’t give it,” he tosses over his shoulder as he shrugs out of his flannel coat.
“Totally something a murderer would say,” I tease with a cluck of my tongue.
He turns to look at me strangely even as I try for what I hope is a friendly smile. “Hunter,” he concedes. “Hunter Barrett.”
Hunter.
I almost laugh at the utter appropriateness of his name. He definitely looks like a Hunter.
I close the door behind me and let my eyes sweep the room.
There’s a giant elk head mounted behind the front desk—its horns decked in dusty old Santa hats despite it being October.
An old brass chandelier that has seen better days hangs above us in the wide entryway; thick cobwebs dangling between the fixtures make me grimace as I stare up into them.
The walls are a rich stained wood that feels warm even covered in dust, and I think to myself that with a little TLC, they could shine up nicely.
All that’s missing is a bearskin rug.
Honestly, I’m not convinced I won’t find one with further exploration.
I notice Hunter rounding the front counter, which is built of treated cedar, reaching up to pull off the beanie he’s wearing.
The hair beneath is a thick heap of dark curls that frame his face and make him seem wilder somehow—not to mention the way I’m filled with a sudden curiosity as to what it might feel like if I pushed my fingers through them.
He climbs up to take a seat on a wooden stool, settling there as he braces his hands on the counter in front of an open ledger.
“So, you do work here, right?”
“Sort of goes with owning the place, yeah,” he tells me with a slight smirk.
I blink dumbly. “You’re the owner?”
“Last time I checked.”
My mouth parts in surprise, and it takes me all of three seconds to realize that I made murder jokes to my new would-be employer of sorts, most likely giving him the impression that I’m completely unhinged.
Perfect.