CHAPTER THREE
Roxie
I did not sleep well.
Not because the bed wasn’t comfortable—it was possibly the most comfortable bed I’d ever been in, all soft sheets and pillows that felt like clouds.
The man must have spent a fortune on the bedding alone.
No, I didn’t sleep well because every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Bridger’s hands on that espresso machine. And the freaking chainsaw. Why the hell had that been so sexy? Because he had strong, capable hands that knew exactly what they were doing.
Hands that I had absolutely no business thinking about.
Get it together, Roxie.
I gave up on sleep around six-thirty and padded into the bathroom. The soaking tub called to me after weeks on the road staying in the cheapest accommodations I could find, but that felt too... intimate. Too much like making myself at home.
The shower, though. The shower I could justify.
I turned it on and immediately understood why rich people acted the way they did. This wasn’t a shower. This was an experience. Rainfall showerhead. Body jets. Steam. The water pressure alone could’ve solved world peace.
I moaned. Possibly more than once.
When I finally dragged myself out, I dug into me duffel bag, regretting my choice of travel wear. I’d wanted clothes that wouldn’t wrinkle. Sighing in regret, I pulled out a pair of clean shorts and t-shirt, then stared at myself in the mirror.
My hair was doing that thing where it couldn’t decide between wavy and frizzy.
I’d packed makeup just as lightly as my clothing—lip gloss and mascara.
I’d been going for finding myself vibes.
Now, I regretted several of my decisions.
Now, I found myself wanting to lean into the impressing a hot lumberjack vibe.
I hadn’t had a cup of coffee yet and I was about to break another rule.
Rule #27: Never let a man see you first thing in the morning until at least date five.
Well, Momma, I was blowing right past that one. Here I was, about to go downstairs with bedhead and no concealer and shorts that had seen better days.
I tugged at my t-shirt, smoothing it over my hips. I’d worked hard to make peace with the body I had. Ignoring years of magazines and movies telling me my curves were not the norm.
Most days, I genuinely loved how I looked.
I liked that my waist nipped in before flaring out into a soft, generous pair of hips, and I loved that I actually filled out a pair of shorts.
But standing in the bathroom of a man who looked like Bridger—all hard lines, dense muscle, and chiseled perfection—those old, venomous voices from my corporate past tried to whisper that I was too much.
That a mountain god like him only went for women who looked like yoga instructors.
I shoved them back where they belonged.
Momma had other rules. One she’d told me when I’d cried over a boy I liked in eighth grade who noticed the shiny lip gloss another girl wore to school.
Rule #36: A man who only likes you with makeup on isn’t a man worth keeping.
She’d said it with a wink. Said the right man would think I was beautiful no matter what I had—or didn’t have—on my face.
So I was going downstairs with my bedhead and my morning face and my dignity intact. If he didn’t like it, that was his problem.
The smell hit me first. Coffee. Rich and dark and perfect.
Then I saw him.
He could fit that description as well. Rich and dark and perfect.
Bridger was in the kitchen, wearing black joggers and a gray t-shirt that clung to his shoulders in a way that made me want to squeeze my legs together. His hair was messy, like he’d just woken up and he was… barefoot.
Barefoot.
Why was that hot? Why were his feet hot? And more importantly, what was wrong with me for thinking that?
He looked up as I came down the stairs, and his gaze moved over me in one quick sweep that I felt everywhere.
“Coffee?” he asked, indicating the espresso machine.
“I will confess I was going to cry if you didn’t offer to fix me another cup.”
“That dependent on caffeine?”
I shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe.”
“Noted.” I had to take a step back when he actually smiled.
I took a seat at the island as he made me a cup with the same efficiency as yesterday. Our fingers brushed when I took it. I wrapped my hands around the mug and took a sip.
Heaven. Absolute heaven.
“You sleep okay?” he asked.
No, because I couldn’t stop thinking about you and your stupid perfect house and your stupid perfect hands.
“Yeah,” I lied. “That bed is amazing.”
“Good.”
He leaned against the counter, coffee in hand. “Do you want breakfast?”
“Umm, I have some protein bars I’m willing to share.”
That made his full lips curl up in the corner. “Good to know. But I was thinking more along the lines of bacon and eggs. Unless you don’t eat that.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Supper last night had been simple. Chicken and broccoli. “I just... you don’t have to cook for me.”
“I’m cooking for both of us.”
Why did that send a shiver of tingles to… other places.
“Most guys I know live on takeout and protein shakes.”
“I’m not most guys.”
No. No, he definitely wasn’t.
He started pulling things out of the fridge.
This was just breakfast. People made breakfast for houseguests all the time. It didn’t mean anything.
Except watching him move around the kitchen—cracking eggs one-handed, flipping bacon, completely comfortable and competent—felt like something.
Within minutes he was plating the food. Perfectly scrambled eggs. Crispy bacon. Toast with butter. He also made me another cup of coffee which I couldn’t refuse. It was my number one addiction after all.
Or had been. Now there was another contender for that top spot.
I took a big bite of the eggs and couldn’t help the moan that escaped.
What is with me and moaning in this house?
“This is really good,” I said. We ate in silence for a few minutes. A few minutes only because I got nervous and started filling in the silence. “What do you usually do all day on the mountain?”
“Work on projects. Read. Hike sometimes.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Don’t you get lonely?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate. Certain.
“What about friends? Family?”
“I have friends in town. Family’s back east. We talk.”
“You moved out here to get away from people.”
“Yeah.”
“And now I’m here, invading your solitude.”
He looked at me for a long moment. “You’re not invading.”
The way he said it made my stomach flip.
“I can stay out of your way,” I said quickly. “I’ll just read or explore or something. You won’t even know I’m here.”
“I’ll know.”
Two words. But the way his eyes held mine made me think he meant something else entirely.
I took a long sip of coffee to hide my face.
“I’m going to work on the sculpture today,” he said. “In town. You want to come?”
Yes. Absolutely yes. A thousand times yes.
“I don’t want to be in your way.”
“You won’t be.”
“You sure?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t sure.”
“Okay. Yeah. That sounds good.”
He nodded once, then stood and took our plates to the sink. “We leave in twenty.”
I watched him rinse the dishes, trying not to notice the way his forearms flexed or how his t-shirt pulled across his shoulders.
Rule #16: Keep your wits about you, especially around a man who makes you forget them.
Too late, Momma. My wits had left the building the second I saw him with that chainsaw yesterday.
I went back upstairs and attempted to make myself presentable, which was a joke given my limited wardrobe and complete lack of makeup. I settled on the same shorts but one of the few tops that wasn’t a t-shirt, and pulled my hair into a ponytail.
When I came back downstairs, Bridger was waiting by the door in jeans, a black t-shirt, work boots, and a ball cap pulled low.
He looked like the kind of man Momma’s rules were written for.
The drive into town was quieter than yesterday. I wasn’t panicking about being in a stranger’s truck anymore. Now I was just aware of him. The way he smelled like something I could bottle and make myself a cool million. He smelled that good.
We parked near the town square, and I followed him to where the sculpture waited. In the morning light, I could see it more clearly—the rough outline of a massive grizzly, standing on its hind legs, maybe eight feet tall.
“Wow,” I breathed.
Bridger pulled on work gloves and put in a pair of orange ear plugs before picking up the chainsaw he’d brought with him.
“You can sit over there,” he said, nodding toward a bench about fifteen feet away. “Gets loud.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He studied me for a second, then nodded and fired up the chainsaw.
The noise was immediate and aggressive and somehow thrilling.
And watching him work was even better than yesterday.
He moved with complete confidence, the chainsaw an extension of his body. Carving away wood in precise strips, revealing the bear underneath. Sawdust flew everywhere. His muscles flexed. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
I sat on that bench and tried to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
“This is educational,” I murmured to myself. “You’re learning about art.”
You’re learning about the art of a man, especially how his biceps look when he lifts that chainsaw and how his hands grip the handle and how his entire body moves when he—
“You okay?”
I jerked my head up. Bridger had killed the chainsaw and was looking at me.
“What? Yeah. Fine. Why?”
“You look flushed.”
Because I’m having completely inappropriate thoughts about you and your power tools.
“It’s warm,” I said.
“It’s sixty-five degrees.”
“I run hot.”
His eyes darkened, and I realized what I’d said. Heat flooded my face.
“There’s water in the cooler.” I couldn’t help but notice that his voice seemed rougher than it had this morning. Had he been thinking of me?
“Right. Yes. Water. Good idea.”
Bridger went back to work, and I went back to pretending I wasn’t watching him like he was the most interesting thing I’d ever seen.