Chapter 3 #4
I don’t mean to wind up at the deck stairs, one hand on the railing and short a few dozen brain cells (the important ones, ones that help unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth in moments like these) as I try to process rolled-up sleeves and thick forearms. It also doesn’t escape my notice that even from where I’m standing at the top of the stairs, Hunter might still be eye level to me.
Needless to say, I’m decidedly less than eloquent when I meet the surly innkeeper for the third time since my arrival in Pleasant Hill.
God, this guy could create an entire TikTok account of just him chopping wood and make a killing.
I find him mid-swing, which means I’m forced to watch the way the plaid button-down hugs his shoulders as they strain with the effort of rolling to wield an axe—leaving me an addled mess with parted lips and wide eyes.
Honestly, at this point, I hope I still look like a functioning human woman.
His chest heaves against the fabric of his shirt as he looks up at me with a furrowed brow, then reaches with his free hand to wipe away the sweat that clings there.
That’s when I remember that I’m still staring at him.
“Hey.” My voice comes out all wrong. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He swings the axe enough so that the blade is wedged into the wide log that he’s using to prop up the smaller ones—and that’s not supposed to be hot, is it? “Did you need something?”
“Oh, no, not really,” I say a little too quickly.
“I just wanted to—” I’m momentarily distracted when he tugs at the edge of his shirt to bring it up to his forehead to wipe the sweat there, revealing hard lines and ridges and a trail of dark hair that disappears into his jeans.
I refuse to think about how far it goes.
“I wanted to apologize if I was rude yesterday,” I manage.
“It was a long flight and a weird day. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything about your place. It’s really great.”
One dark brow arches with something that almost seems like amusement, but it’s so hard to read Hunter Barrett. “Nah, you meant it,” he says with a shrug. “But you didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
“Still,” I say through gritted teeth, ignoring his blasé demeanor. Also, how is he wearing only that flannel out here? Is he some sort of yeti? “I really wanted to say I’m sorry.”
Another shrug. “It’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Help out with my dingy lodge?”
“Look, I gather that you weren’t completely on board with hiring me, but I’d love it if we could sort of work together on this. I want to be sure that any changes I make are ones that you’ll be happy with.”
“Got your work cut out for you then,” he snorts.
Don’t scowl. Don’t scowl.
“I can handle it,” I say with my sunniest smile. “I’m sure we can do some great things here. I don’t know if you’re on TikTok, but I’ve handled way bigger renos than this.”
He looks at me like I’m speaking French. “Not on…TikTok. Sorry.”
I almost laugh. That definitely tracks. I’m trying not to let my eyes settle on the tiny bit of dark hair that escapes the unbuttoned collar of his shirt.
So it’s top to bottom then, eh? “I’m sure you’re the type that has a private Facebook with just family and friends, huh? Stranger danger and all that?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Don’t have one.”
“You don’t have Facebook?”
“Nope.”
My brow knits. “You don’t strike me as the X type.”
“Don’t know what that is,” he says matter-of-factly. “Don’t really use the internet, aside from the website for reservations.”
Now I’m probably looking at him like he’s started speaking French. “Everyone uses the internet.”
“Except me, I guess,” he says dryly.
I find myself staring at him again, but now it’s in a way as if he’s sprouted another head. He’s talking like a seventy-year-old man, but by my best guess, Hunter can’t be more than thirty. If that. Who in the hell doesn’t use the internet in this day and age?
In my disbelief, I can hear my voice coming out an octave higher than it should be.
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Just have better things to do with my time.”
I have about a dozen other questions I could ask about my new acquaintance’s particular oddity, but even knowing as little as I do about Hunter, I still recognize that he’ll probably have little to offer on the subject other than some dodgy monosyllabic answer.
“Okay, Grandpa,” I snort, shoving my hands into my pockets. “What do you do with your free time? Whittle?”
His mouth does something I’ve yet to see it do, turning up at the corners until I’m blasted with straight white teeth that make my stomach flutter a little.
I decide then and there that should I ever find myself miraculously given a seat in Congress, my first order of business would be rendering Hunter Barrett’s smile illegal.
“Something like that,” he laughs quietly.
He reaches down to gather up a few logs he’s finished splitting, beginning the process of piling them in his long arms, presumably so he can carry them inside.
I shuffle my feet, trying to calm the swooping that lingers inside my belly in the aftermath of a full-blown Hunter smile. “Do you need help with that?”
I’m rewarded with another low chuckle. “I’ve got it. Better save your strength for all the fixin’.”
I ignore his obvious joke at my expense. “Sure. How far away is town, by the way? I was hoping you guys had a pharmacy.”
“A pharmacy?”
I avert my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest. Definitely don’t want to get into that discussion with Hunter.
Especially not after his weird comments about my designation, which I barely know anything about myself.
The doctor only gave me a small supply of the meds, writing a prescription for more that I could fill.
I’m sort of regretting not taking care of it in the city now.
“Just need to pick up a few things,” I mumble.
“Your car won’t make it down the mountain.”
My eyes snap up to meet his. “What?”
“Had a big snow last week. Your tires aren’t wrapped. Not even sure how you made it to the lodge without winding up in a ditch.”
“I’m perfectly capable of driving in snow,” I snipe.
His mouth quirks. “Well, you can capably find yourself on the side of the road in a snowbank if you try to make it down the mountain in that little car.”
“What am I supposed to do then?”
“If you need a ride”—he straightens with his arms full of wood, his dark eyes settling on my face—“I’d be happy to give you one. If I’m not busy.”
I feel my cheeks heat a little, and I remind myself that this is a perfectly innocent statement, regardless of what my stomach is doing in response.
It takes me a moment to answer, because my initial urge is to argue, but there’s a slight hint of warm rain creeping into my nostrils now that he’s a little closer, and it’s making me sort of dizzy.
I blink, trying to remember words as a twisting sensation ensues in my stomach.
“That’d be great,” I half squeak as he starts to move past me.
He’s at the top of the stairs and towering over me in a matter of seconds, the corners of his mouth tilting up as he gives me a glance from the side, one dark curl escaping his might-be-staple beanie and falling into his eyes. “You know, in between all my whittling.”
His eyes move over my face as my lips press together in a tight line, and he finally moves to carry the wood inside.
It takes me at least three seconds to remember how to form words as I spin on my heel to call after him, pushing down the still-writhing feeling in my stomach that’s quickly progressing to something more and more uncomfortable with every second.
“Oh, hey, what’s the Wi-Fi password, by the way?”
His answering laugh doesn’t bode well.