Taming the Lumberjack (Sexy Lumbersnacks #7)

Chapter 1

Lexie

I do not cry on the drive up the mountain.

Mostly because the road twisting through Lovestone Ridge is narrow enough to require both hands on the wheel and all of my attention. Also because my sister made me promise. Very specifically.

No sad breakup playlists. No mascara disasters. No dramatic pit stops for gas station chocolate and ugly sobbing.

Just fresh air, a quiet cabin, and one whole weekend to breathe.

That is what she told me on the phone three nights ago after I called her in tears and confessed that, somehow, my life had managed to explode all at once.

“You need out of the city for a few days,” Gaby had said in that bossy big-sister voice that usually means resistance is pointless. “Matt’s family still knows people in Lovestone Ridge. His cousin rents out cabins there. I’m booking you a cabin.”

“You’re what?”

“I booked it,” she repeated. “It’s cute, it’s private, and it has a fireplace. You’re going.”

Which, honestly, had been exactly what I needed after losing my job and getting dumped in the same miserable week.

Getting fired from my assistant job at the online magazine had been humiliating enough, especially when I had not even been the one who made the mistake. But somehow, my boyfriend of two years still found a way to make my job loss an inconvenience for him.

For him.

I grip the steering wheel tighter and squint through the windshield at the long ribbon of road ahead.

The nerve of that man still makes my eye twitch.

Six months ago, Darren lost his own job and assured me it was temporary.

He said he just needed a little time. Said he’d pay me back.

Said couples supported each other and maybe I should stop stressing so much.

So I covered his groceries. Then utilities.

Then his rent. Then some mysterious emergency that turned out to be a new gaming headset.

All while he spent most of his days in his apartment, playing video games in his boxers.

And then, when I told him I’d been fired for something I didn’t even do, he stared at me for a long second and said, “I just think maybe this is too much for me.”

Too much for him.

I had actually laughed at first because what else was there to do?

Then he followed it up with, ‘You can’t expect me to carry both of us, Lex. I have my own stress. And honestly, you should’ve been grateful I stayed this long. Most guys aren’t exactly lining up for a curvy girl with this much drama.’”

That part had hurt.

He knew exactly where to aim.

I exhale slowly, forcing the ache back down where it belongs. I am not giving Darren one more second of my mountain weekend.

Ahead of me, a wooden sign appears between two towering pines.

Welcome to Lovestone Ridge.

Population: Small.

I almost imagine a second line underneath.

Charm: stupidly high.

A surprised laugh slips out of me.

Okay. Fine. That’s kind of adorable.

The town itself is straight out of a postcard. Quaint little shops with deep porches and flower boxes. A diner with a hand-painted sign. A general store with rocking chairs out front. Everything tucked between mountains that look soft in the afternoon light and endless forests of pine and cedar.

Gaby was right. This is real air.

By the time I follow my directions onto a narrower road and then an even narrower one, my chest feels a little less tight. The cabin finally comes into view through the trees, and I actually gasp.

“Oh,” I whisper.

It is perfect.

Small and tucked away under tall evergreens, the cabin looks like something from a winter romance movie. Weathered wood. Stone chimney. Tiny porch. Smoke-dark roof. There’s even a little railing lined with empty flower boxes waiting for spring.

I park, climb out, and just stand there for a second with my duffel in one hand.

The air is crisp and cool enough to kiss my cheeks. Pine and damp earth and something clean I do not have a name for fill my lungs so deeply it almost hurts.

For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe all the way down.

Inside, the place is even sweeter.

One room, just like Gaby said. Cozy and warm in a way that immediately loosens something in me.

A big bed sits against the far wall under a patchwork quilt in soft reds and cream. A tiny kitchen lines one side of the room with butcher block counters, open shelves, and a cute little retro fridge.

There’s a narrow wooden table with two chairs by the window, and on the opposite side is a stone fireplace with two cushioned armchairs in front of it angled toward each other like they’re meant for late-night confessions.

A small door near the back opens to a bathroom with a clawfoot tub that nearly makes me emotional.

I set my bags on the floor and turn in a slow circle.

“It’s perfect,” I murmur.

Gaby really does love me.

I spend the next twenty minutes unpacking just enough to make the place feel mine for the weekend.

Clothes in the dresser. Toiletries in the bathroom.

Makeup bag on the little vanity mirror by the bed.

I plug in my phone, open the curtains, and then immediately close them halfway again because apparently being alone in the woods has made me weirdly aware of windows.

The silence out here is different.

Not empty. Full.

Branches tapping lightly outside. The whisper of wind through trees. The old cabin settling around me.

It should feel lonely.

Instead, it feels like a hand on my head gently telling me to hush.

I make tea and carry the mug over to one of the chairs by the fireplace, curling my legs under me. This is where I should think about practical things. About job applications and savings and whether I can afford to keep my apartment if I do not find work soon.

Instead, I pull out my phone and open the notes app where I keep scraps of article ideas, little observations, fragments of sentences I never show anyone.

I’ve wanted to write for as long as I can remember.

Not assist. Not organize someone else’s calendar. Not chase down missing graphics and correct captions and schedule social posts while more important people get to put their names on the things that matter.

Write.

But every time I got close to admitting that out loud, something happened. Bills. Stress. Darren needing money. Darren needing reassurance. Darren needing snacks, apparently, because lord forbid a grown man forage for himself.

A sharp knock on the door jolts me upright.

My heart jumps.

I set my tea down and stare at the door.

Who on earth is knocking on a mountain cabin this late in the afternoon?

Another knock sounds, deeper this time.

I smooth a hand over my sweater and go to open it.

The moment the door swings inward, I forget how language works.

Oh.

Oh wow.

The man standing on my porch is so unfairly handsome he does not look real.

Tall, broad, huge everywhere, he fills the doorway with the kind of rough masculine presence that makes my pulse stumble hard enough to hurt.

Dark hair brushes the collar of his flannel.

His beard is neat but full, framing a hard mouth that looks like it doesn’t smile often.

And his eyes, piercing blue beneath straight dark brows, pin me where I stand.

For one completely insane second, all I can think is fairytale prince.

If fairytale princes chopped wood for a living and looked like they could carry me over one shoulder without breaking a sweat.

He has a stack of firewood cradled in one arm like it weighs nothing at all.

I just stand there, staring.

His gaze flicks over my face, then lower, so fast I almost think I imagined it. But something changes in his expression. Tightens. Warms. Darkens.

Heat climbs up my neck.

“Firewood,” he says.

His voice is deep and rough, scraping over my skin in a way that should probably be illegal.

“Oh.” Brilliant, Lexie. “Right. Fire.”

One of his eyebrows shifts like he might almost be amused.

“I can set it inside for you if you want.”

I blink myself back to life and step aside so quickly I nearly trip over my own socked feet.

“Yes. Sorry. Yes, please. Come in.”

He ducks under the doorframe and suddenly my tiny cabin feels even tinier. He smells like cold air, pine, and clean male sweat. Like the mountain itself decided to become a man and knock on my door.

I close the door behind him with fingers that do not feel entirely reliable.

He crosses to the wood box by the fireplace as if he already knows exactly where everything is and crouches to stack the logs. The movement pulls his flannel tight across his back and shoulders, and I have to press my lips together to keep from making an actual sound.

Good grief.

My ex spent two years making me feel like my body took up too much space in every room.

This man walks into one room and somehow makes all the air feel built around him.

He straightens and turns toward me.

Up close, he is even more devastating. Weathered in a way that only makes him better. Older than me, definitely. Mid-thirties maybe. Big hands. Strong jaw. Eyes so blue it feels unfair.

“Thank you,” I manage. “I’m Lexie. Lexie Crane.”

Something flickers across his face at my name. Something that looks a little like surprise and a lot like attention.

“Weston Stark.”

Even his name sounds rugged.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, painfully aware of everything all at once. My leggings. My oversized sweater. My bare face from the drive. The fact that I probably look like a woman one inconvenience away from a breakdown.

He doesn’t look at me like that, though.

He looks at me like he’s trying to figure out something important.

“You just get in?” he asks.

“About half an hour ago.”

He nods. “The cabin belongs to a friend of my family. I handle the firewood deliveries for the rentals on this side of the ridge.”

Of course he does. Of course the giant mountain man appears at my door carrying wood like some ancient forest god.

“That seems very on brand for this town,” I say before I can stop myself.

His mouth shifts again. Definitely almost a smile this time.

A little thrill flutters through me at the thought that I might be the reason for it.

“I guess it is.”

Silence settles for a second, but it does not feel awkward. It feels charged. Like the room knows something I do not yet.

He studies me, and I suddenly get the wildest urge to tell him everything. About losing my job. About Darren. About how tired I am. About how this place already feels more like peace than the apartment I spent two years paying for.

Instead, I say, “My sister sent me here.”

“Yeah?”

“Emergency mountain recovery plan.”

That actually does earn me a small smile. It hits me right in the chest.

“She smart?”

“The smartest.” I smile back. “Her husband’s from here. That’s how she found the cabin.”

Weston nods once, like that makes sense. Like of course family takes care of you.

“Town’s having a dance tonight.”

“A dance?”

“At the community hall.” He glances toward the window as if checking the light. “Nothing fancy. Music, food, locals pretending they don’t gossip.”

I laugh before I can help it.

His eyes stay on me.

“You should come.”

It is so direct that for a second I just stare.

He asked me.

This mountain of a man with his rough voice and quiet eyes and shoulders built for sin just invited me to a dance like we are in some rustic fever dream tailored specifically to my emotional needs.

“Really?” I ask, and instantly hate how breathless I sound.

“Really.” His gaze drops to my mouth for the smallest second. “I can pick you up at seven if you want.”

My heart gives one huge, traitorous thump.

This is ridiculous. I got dumped less than a week ago. I am in a strange town. I do not know this man.

And yet every instinct in me, every soft, foolish, hopeful part, leans toward him like a flower toward sunlight.

Maybe because nothing about Weston feels slippery or performative.

He is not trying to charm me. He is just standing there, huge and quiet and certain, asking.

I think of Darren rolling his eyes every time I wanted him to take me somewhere that required real pants.

I think of the way Weston carried in my firewood without making it seem like a favor.

I think of the way he looks at me, like I am something worth noticing.

“Yes,” I say.

The word comes out soft, but it lands between us with surprising force.

Something in his face eases. Not a full smile, still, but close enough to steal my breath all over again.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” I clear my throat and try again. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Good.”

He says it like he already knew what my answer would be.

A shiver dances down my spine.

He heads toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob and looks back at me.

“Road gets dark fast up here. Keep your porch light on before I come by.”

“Okay.”

“And lock the door after me.”

I blink.

There is nothing bossy in the words. Nothing sharp. But the low note in his voice sends a strange warm pulse through my belly anyway.

“Okay,” I repeat, quieter this time.

His eyes hold mine for one beat longer than necessary. Then he opens the door and steps out onto the porch.

Cold air rushes in around him.

“Seven, Lexie.”

I stand there clutching the edge of my sweater like an idiot. “Seven.”

Then he is gone, taking half the oxygen in the room with him.

I close the door. Lock it.

And then I just stand in the middle of the cabin staring at nothing, my pulse racing like I’ve run uphill.

A dance.

With a lumberjack.

A mountain man lumberjack with blue eyes and hands the size of dinner plates and a voice that could melt every bit of snow on the ridge.

This is insane.

This is probably a terrible idea.

This is absolutely happening.

Slowly, helplessly, I grin.

Then I turn toward the dresser.

I have exactly two hours to figure out what a woman wears to a mountain-town dance when she is trying very hard not to fall for the rugged man who just delivered her firewood.

Given my luck lately, I am probably already in trouble.