CHAPTER ONE #2
My eyes widened. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”
“She needs somewhere to stay,” Lou pressed. “Can’t have her getting cited for sleeping in her car.”
A muscle worked in Bridger’s jaw. He didn’t say anything for a second. “You were going to sleep in your car?”
“I didn’t have a better option.”
“You do now.”
Not a question. A statement.
My brain stuttered. “I don’t even know you.”
“Lou can vouch for me.” Again, that ghost of a smile.
“Well, I don’t know Lou either.” I planted my hands on my hips. I wasn’t quite sure why I was arguing with him. Except, of course, because one of Momma’s rules kept repeating in my head.
Rule #6: Don’t trust a stranger just because another stranger says you should.
Or another one that Momma didn’t include because it was universal. Don’t accept candy from a stranger. And this looked suspiciously like candy.
Man candy, that dangerous voice inside me purred. Yummy, man candy.
“He’s a good man,” Lou said quickly. “Keeps to himself, but he’s solid. You’ll be safe up there.”
I looked between them. At Lou’s earnest, weathered face, then Bridger’s which gave me nothing.
“I can’t just... impose on a stranger.”
“You’re not imposing,” Bridger said. His voice was flat. Final. “I’ve got the space. You need it.”
“It’s really not that simple.”
“You got another option?”
He knew I didn’t.
“I need to finish up here,” he said, gesturing to the sculpture. “I’ll come pick you up at Lou’s.”
Then he turned and picked his chainsaw back up, dismissing me entirely.
I stood there, mouth open, brain spinning.
Lou patted my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you sorted.”
We walked back to the garage in silence.
This was insane. Bonkers. Certifiable.
But what choice did I have? Sleep in my car and get cited? Call someone? I knew no one in the area and my mother lived almost two thousand miles away. Granted, she’d jump in her car and drive through the night, but still…
No.
I was a grown woman. I could handle one week in a stranger’s house. People did Airbnb all the time. This was basically the same thing.
Except Airbnb didn’t usually involve chainsaws and bedroom eyes and a voice that made you think of rumpled sheets.
Back at the garage, Lou showed me where I could wait—a small office with a coffee maker and a chair that had seen better days. I tried to read something on my phone, but my brain wouldn’t focus.
What was I doing?
Going home with a stranger. A hulking, tattooed stranger who carved animals with chainsaws and lived alone on a mountain. Great.
Momma would lose her mind.
Rule #1: Never get into a truck with a stranger.
It was practically the foundation of her entire Survival Guide for the Modern Woman.
And here I was, about to not only break it, but rewrite it entirely. I wasn’t just climbing into a truck with a stranger. I was about to spend the next few nights with him.
Platonically, but within breathing distance.
Twenty-three minutes later—not that I was counting—I heard the rumble of a truck engine.
I looked out the office window and saw him. Bridger was climbing out of a huge black truck, now wearing a clean black t-shirt, though there was still a scattering of sawdust in his hair.
Of course, my body responded in the most unladylike way.
Lou appeared in the doorway. “He’s here. You ready?”
Was I?
No. Absolutely not.
“Yeah,” I heard myself say.
Lou helped me grab my duffel bag from Scarlet’s trunk, and I followed him out to where Bridger was waiting.
Bridger took the bag from Lou without a word and placed it in the bed of his truck.
“Ready?” he asked, looking at me.
No. Still no.
“Yeah.”
He opened the passenger door and stood there, waiting.
This was it. The moment. The point of no return.
I looked at Lou, who gave me an encouraging nod.
And then I climbed into the truck. Or I tried to. There were no running boards. Why would there be? He certainly didn’t need them. Before I could comment or make a graceless attempt at mounting the black beast, I felt hands on each side of my waist.
His hands felt like they were spanning my entire waist, which was impossible.
What I didn’t imagine was the feel of those fingers squeezing my flesh like he was testing the yield of ripe, heavy fruit.
He leaned over and buckled me in, his hand brushed along my stomach and I sucked it in, which earned me a dark look.
Don’t suck it in. Sucking it in is the universal female sign of I care what you think. I did not care what he thought.
I cared a lot what he thought.
Dammit.
The door shut with a solid thunk.
Bridger slid into the driver’s seat, taking up too much space. And what was that smell? His damn shampoo?
He started the engine.
We pulled onto the street, past the general store and the diner and the town square where his half-finished sculpture stood.
I snuck a glance at him. Strong hands on the wheel. Corded forearms dusted with dark hair. The way his jaw flexed when he shifted gears.
“How far is your place?” I asked.
“Twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes of charming small talk. Can’t wait.”
His mouth twitched. “I don’t do small talk.”
“Shocking. I never would have guessed.”
“You done?”
“Done with what?” I smiled at him. “Oh, the small talk? Sorry, I’m just getting started.”
Once outside of town, he turned onto a winding road that climbed into the mountains.
The road twisted and dipped, and every sharp turn sent my soft thighs sliding slightly against the leather seat.
I braced my foot against the floorboards, trying not to jiggle like a bowl of Jell-O on a bumpy tractor ride.
The silence between us was not uncomfortable, exactly. Just... aware.
“What are you carving?” I asked. “In the square?”
“A bear.”
“A bear?” I repeated. Apparently, sitting next to a giant mountain man had erased by normal tantalizing small talk.
“Grizzly. For the town. They commissioned it last month.”
“That’s actually really cool.”
He glanced at me. “You think so?”
“Yeah. I mean, chainsaw sculpture? That takes serious skill.”
His mouth actually curved into a smile this time. “It’s loud.”
“Is that all you do?” Now I really was on a fishing expedition. But I’d warned him.
“Now it is.” I knew there was more to that story, but I didn’t push.
“What do you do?” The question didn’t really surprise me.
“I... don’t know anymore.”
He raised an eyebrow as he read between the lines for the rest of my story. “You scared?”
“Of what? Being unemployed? The car repair? Yeah, a little.”
He shook his head. “No. Those things will sort themselves out. This. Me. Coming to my place.”
I should lie. I should say no, I’m fine, totally comfortable.
But there was Rule #7: Don’t lie—no matter how much the truth hurts. It was one of the few rules I’d actually managed to keep my whole life.
“A little,” I admitted. “Mostly because I’m entirely out of my depth, and also because my mother’s voice in my head is currently on a loop about what I should and shouldn’t do in this type of situation.”
He nodded. “Good.”
“Good?” My voice squeaked. My gut wasn’t sending out any alarms. I looked at him again. Nope. No serial killer vibes.
“It means you’re smart.”
“Smart? I’m thinking maybe I should be scared after all.”
His eyes met mine for a heartbeat before returning to the road. “I’m harmless.”
I gave a little laugh. “I sincerely doubt that.”
He settled back against his seat. The movement drew my eyes to his legs. His thighs. They were thick columns of pure muscle stretching the denim of his jeans to the absolute limit, splayed wide in a way that felt entirely too dominant for the cab of a truck. His…
Nope. Not going there.
At least not yet.
But heaven help me, my thighs clutched together instinctively, a sudden pulse of hot ache flaring up between my legs.
We turned off the main road onto a gravel drive that wound up even further through the trees. The truck climbed steadily, higher and higher, until the forest opened up.
And there it was.
I’d expected a cabin made of logs. Something rustic.
This was not that.
The house was big. And I meant big. Modern.
All glass and wood and clean lines, built into the side of the mountain like it had grown there.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the trees and sky.
A large wraparound porch that held two rockers and a large swing.
It just called for a glass of sweet ice tea on a warm summer day.
My jaw dropped.
“You live here?”
Bridger drove around to the back and parked in front of the garage—a three-car garage—
and killed the engine. To the side was a large deck that looked like it could hold a football team and then some.
“Yeah. This is mine.”
“This is...” I turned to look at him. “This isn’t a cabin.”
“Never said it was.”
He got out of the truck, and I sat there for another second.
I looked at the house. At Bridger pulling my bag from the truck bed.
At the forest surrounding us, quiet and endless.
It wasn’t even noon, and I’d broken some of the most important rules Momma ever gave me, and a few I’d had to make up of my own.
Drooled over a man with a chainsaw. Check.
Got into a truck with a stranger. Check.
And the last one? Rule #47: Above all else, Roxie, don’t be stupid.
That one was the umbrella rule. The catch-all. The if-you-only-remember-one-thing rule.
Turns out there were a lot of ways to break it.
I’d driven up a mountain with a man I didn’t know. Felt his hands on my waist when he’d lifted me into the cab, treating my curves like something that didn’t bother him, and watched him pull my bag from his truck.
As his dark eyes locked onto mine across the sleek roof of the vehicle, the heat in his gaze made one thing perfectly clear.
I just might be in over my head.