Chapter 3
3
brAD
When I arrived at the Bordon place, I parked behind a beat-up blue half ton. Huh. I could have sworn Nash drove a well-worn Honda Civic. Had he traded it in once he realized a truck would be handier for his new job?
I was standing out front, checking out the fallen ash when I heard the roar of a chain saw. Following the sound to the back yard, I found Nash down beside a rough shed, expertly wielding a chain saw on a limb that had broken off a Manitoba maple. I stayed quiet and watched, assessing his excellent technique. The proper attire—safety boots, safety gloves, ear protection, hard hat, safety glasses and visor—were a given, though they didn’t look like the brand PRP had provided. Missing were the chain saw chaps, which I know John insisted all his employees wore when working a chain saw. Feet braced slightly apart, knees bent, the chain saw held to one side so if it bucked, it wouldn’t end up in his face. Good, whoever had trained him had trained him well.
Should I distract Nash from what he was doing or knock on Mrs. Bordon’s door and announce my arrival first? The decision was taken from me when the patio door opened and Mrs. Bordon peered down at me.
“Hey, Mrs. B, John sent me to look after your mountain ash.”
That’s when I noticed the gigantic creamy-gold chicken tucked under her arm, her other hand scratching under its chin.
“This is Henrietta,” Mrs. B said, pride filling her voice when she followed my gaze. “She doesn’t like storms so she needed some extra cuddles.”
All righty then. Interesting that the storm bothered the mother-clucker, but the noise from the chain saw didn’t.
The chain saw stopped, and I turned to talk to Nash. I stopped when he—she—lifted his—her—visor. Dark eyes stared back at me, assessing me with more intensity than I’d had assessing her moments earlier. Why was it I got the feeling I didn’t get a passing grade?
“You must be the arborist.” She removed her hard hat, revealing dark hair tied up in a messy bun, then walked toward me while removing her work gloves. Once she got close enough, she stuck out a hand. “I’m Chloe Pogue. My dad sent me to check in on Mrs. Bordon.”
Her throaty voice shot right down my spine and lodged in my balls as my brain pictured her in bed beside me, above me, surrounding me. Mike Pogue’s daughter? How come I didn’t know her? I didn’t remember running into her in high school—which we should have done considering everyone in Port Paxton attended the single high school in town.
Chloe was a few inches shorter than me, with high cheek bones that hinted at native ancestry, which was common around here with the nearby First Nation reserve on the other side of the island.
I took her outstretched hand. Her grip was as strong as any groundsman I’d worked with. My brain immediately supplied the idea of her hand stroking my dick. Oh shit. I did not need to sport a woody right now. This was not insta-love I told myself sternly, a term one of my elder sisters insisted on using, much to my chagrin, but my brain decided its reaction was definitely insta-lust at the minimum.
Keep it professional, Calhoun.
CHLOE
I assessed the guy as he shook my hand. From his calluses to the strength of his grip. It set my “want him in bed” meter chiming.
Rugged. Good eye contact. And tall .
Was it the fact he was my ex’s complete opposite or something else entirely?
I’m almost six feet tall, so a lot of guys my height or less were intimidated by me right off the bat. This guy? I had to look up at least another six inches. He wore a Pine Ridge Prunery hard hat, which told me where he worked and why he was here. So, gainfully employed, another check on my to be considered list. The guy’s thick red lumberjack-style beard didn’t hurt, either. It begged me to tug on it to bring his face closer so I could kiss him, press that hard body against mine. To bury his face deep between my thighs and pleasure me.
Because of the notoriety thrust upon me thanks to my ex’s exploits, it had been a while since I’d been with a guy. Those few who had been invited for a romp in the hay, I never promised a commitment. I wasn’t going to go through that hell again. I couldn’t afford to, either with the heartache it caused or the financial losses like those I was still paying off. Sex, sure. Commitment? No thanks.
It wasn’t just the sex I missed—hell, my toys could fulfill that need. No, I missed the casual touches to my back, breath on my neck when they held me or twined their fingers with mine while we lay on the bed after sex, the warmth of their body beside me on a cold winter’s night as I snuggled up to them. One of us stretched out on the sofa, their head on my lap or mine on theirs, discussing plot points or our favorite actors or actresses as we binge watched a television show. Opening the door after a long day at work to someone calling out, welcoming you home, asking how your day was.
The loneliness at not having any of those things struck me hard from out of the blue. Damn it, why was this hitting me now?
“Brad Calhoun,” he said, giving my hand a light squeeze. I was about to judge there was nothing sexual about that contact, until he held my hand in his one extra beat. Enough to make me wonder if he was about to hit on me. Instead, he said, “I’m the lead arborist with Pine Ridge Prunery.”
Yeah, I was imagining things.
Typical.
Brad nodded to my chain saw. “You’ve got a great technique there. If you’re ever looking for a job as a groundsman, or want to train as an arborist, give me a call.”
Huh, now that was an opening line I hadn’t heard before. Then I realized he was serious and it wasn’t a line. I was about to blow him off with a “thanks but no thanks, it’s not for me” answer when I realized, considering I was going to be out of a job in less than a month, I really should consider the offer. If it was made seriously.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Thanks.”
Groundsmen and arborists made a lot more money than I did as a waitress, even on dull rainy days when the tourists got tired of being cooped up in their tent or trailers and decided to venture into town for a hot breakfast, cooked by someone else. But groundsmen have to work outside. In the worst weather conditions—snow, ice, humidity, and often in areas infested with mosquitoes and black flies.
My first reaction was the honest one, if not the sensible one. Not for me. I’d put in far too many hours sweating my ass off wielding machetes and chain saws, as I helped my grandfather maintain his fifty acres of pines and balsam firs. Grandpa Pogue ran a Christmas tree farm, and that, combined with Dad’s property management, meant holidays, summers and weekends, at least until I moved to southwestern Ontario, had been spent helping one or the other with various backbreaking tasks.
On the plus side, nobody in my family had any reservations about my competence in the traditionally male jobs. But it definitely led to my interest in getting a college degree for a career that could be done indoors.
Oblivious to my reservations, Marilyn start talking me up. Guess I shouldn’t have admitted to her that I was soon to be in need of a job. “Chloe’s been cutting the fallen branches so I can use it for firewood later. She has a lot of experience in outdoor work.”
“I’m not poaching your business if you’re worried about that.” Not that I cared if he saw it that way.
“I’m not worried about that at all,” he said, his voice casual. It was nice dealing with a guy unaffected by potential competition. Then again, he wasn’t the owner, so he might not see me as competition. His gaze flitted over the trees scattered along the boundaries of Marilyn’s yard. “I’m worried about the mountain ash."
"Me too," I found myself saying, as if I wanted him to know our similarities. "It was only a matter of time with all of the damage from the…"
"Borers," he finished for me.
Our gazes locked for a long moment, and something twisted in my stomach, not the anxiety twist of having said something awkward, but an excitement I hadn’t felt in too long a time.
"Do you two know each other?" Mrs. B asked. "Chloe moved back home last year to help out her parents and grandparents."
That absolutely wasn’t why, but I didn't want this guy knowing that my recently divorced self had lost everything, or why. At my age, I should be fully into some enriching career of my own, but after my ex had been arrested for fraud and possession of stolen property which everyone figured I was part of, I’d been fired. After that, every business I applied to did a background check and I got the thanks but not a snowballs chance in hell are we going to hire you email. So here I was, doing exactly what I’d vowed not to do nearly twenty years before.
"I’ve met her dad a few times, and of course my family’s bought trees from her family’s farm.” It was one of the last Christmas tree farms in the area, so that wasn’t surprising. “Did you go to Port Paxton High?"
My excitement sank when he rhymed off the year he’d graduated. A full nine years after I had.
"I did.” When I'd been a senior in high school, eager to escape small-town life and make my mark on the world, I'd barely paid attention to the boys my own age, much less the ones still in elementary school. “But we weren’t in the same classes. I can’t say I recognize you.”
"I looked a lot different then." He flashed me a smile that seemed authentic, not like one of my ex's patented trust-me grins. "Town's changed a lot, hasn't it?"
"Not enough," I said, then practically bit my tongue. The guy and Mrs. B were both happy here, clearly, and I was an asshole for ditching on something they loved.
Marilyn beamed at us both. "The place Chloe works just told her they’re closing down, so she’s looking for a job. She will definitely call you about your offer.”
Brad raised an eyebrow at me. “Sounds good.”
Damn it. It was one thing for her to pump me up and another for her to go out and share my business. That was the trouble with living in a small town. Despite Marilyn assuring me whatever I told her would been kept “in the bubble,” next thing you knew, she’d be telling him about my legal problems, my debts, and anything else I’d complained about during our coffee sessions.
I allowed myself a pained smile. “Well, that’s enough about me. There’s a lot to do after the storm.”
Mrs. B opened the patio door and let Henrietta back in the yard.
I pointed to the chicken coop that had taken on a decided lean, probably due to the winds, or after all the rain we’d had, the earth was so soggy, the supportive posts had sunk further into the ground on one side. "Looks like your chicken coop needs shoring up.”
"Oh dear me, it is leaning, isn’t it?” She turned to us, eyed us and a smile slowly grew, one that reminded me of the Grinch’s smile. I’d learned to be cautious when I saw that smile. “Perhaps you and Bradley can work on it together.”
“We could see what we can do to temporarily fix it, though I think it may need some serious repairs,” Brad said cautiously. “Once we’ve taken care of that tree of yours.”
“Did I mention Bradley’s oldest sister is expecting a baby, her third, or that his brother’s wife is expecting again—this will be their fourth child. His parents are interested to see how long Bradley’s going to hold off before he gives in and gives them children. After he gets married, of course.”
I stole a glance at the big guy standing quietly beside me. His beard couldn’t hide the twitch of his lips, similar to my own. We both knew Mrs. B was matchmaking. Which was better than her telling Brad about my patchy past, I supposed.
"Chloe here is single too. Did I mention that?"
My face heated as Marilyn’s statement changed the situation from amusing to even more awkward. Like I was looking for another relationship. Ever. "I finished with what I could do here, so I'll leave the rest of the tree work to the professionals."
Brad apparently wasn't feeling the awkwardness because he kept chatting. "My boss said your father wants us to go out to the Tamblin place next. Have you checked it out yet?”
Shit. I’d forgotten Dad had asked me to check over there too. I’d intended to go right after checking in on Marilyn but I wasn’t about to admit that I’d let this delicious stranger distract me. “That’s next on my list.”
He pursed his lips, nodded, and with another glance around the yard, said, “Let me check the ash here, see if there’s anything I need to do right away, and then we can head over there together. That way I can make up my quotes for your dad for both places.”
I acknowledged deep inside myself that I was very interested in finding out more about Brad. Not for a long-term relationship. I didn’t do those anymore. But I wasn’t against hooking up for the occasional fling.
I'm sure he had suggested we join forces at the Tamblin place out of practicality and not a similar interest in me. Given the ease with which Marilyn shared all my secrets earlier, he'd probably put two and two together with all the gossip about me around town. If he hadn’t, a quick surf of the internet would give him more dirt than truth. No way was he interested, even if he had held my hand a little too long.
"You can have that second cup of coffee while you wait," Mrs. B suggested, her eyes twinkling as she glanced between us. "How about I fix you up a to-go cup, Bradley."
"Thanks, Mrs. B," Brad said. Why did it feel like he was agreeing with more than an offer of a cup of coffee? "Chloe, I shouldn't be long. My assistant, Nash, will be along soon, and then we can go."
"All right," I said. “I’ll go check on the chicken coop and see if it’s a simple fix.”
I wandered out back, putting physical space, and the house, between us. Brad was attractive, and I liked the idea of someone who wasn’t intimidated by my height or my ability with a chain saw. My body heated at the thought of him making love to me, but at the end of the night, he’d walk away. Or I would.
No way would a guy ten years younger than me would want to stick around with a forty-three-year-old about-to-be-unemployed woman. Which made him perfect fling material, though I was surprised at the disappointment filling me.