Three Billionaire Lumberjacks and a Brat (Three Guys and a Girl Volume 2, #15)
Chapter One
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“Are we supposed to take her over our knees and spank her ass red until she behaves?” I ask, blowing out a breath because what the fuck do we know about discipling a twenty-four-year-old woman with a panache for shopping, fast cars, and disobeying her father just because she can?
Again, what the fuck do we know? Cedar Foster, Samuel Turner, and I are just good old-fashioned lumberjacks.
We live a pretty secluded life, right off the grid, just the way we like it. After grueling years in the military, this is exactly the life we craved. The quiet of the mountains, the calm of the forest.
We grew up in the industry and knew more about logging by the time we were nine years old than most seasoned loggers.
But there’s also nothing better than the vast expanse of crispy fresh air, rich soil, spicy aromas of resins, pine, and cedar, and a hard day’s work to make sleep all the more blissful.
We were always slated to take over our family business.
Our fathers themselves are great friends, so the three of us grew up together since birth.
We could have donned suits and handled the corporate side, but we chose the company our great-grandfathers started with nothing to their name except ambition.
We uphold their legacy every way we can here at The Titan Timber Company, but we also have a firm hold of our other companies and can oversee everything right from our cabin. We’d have it no other way.
But since we’re reaching the ripe old age of twenty-eight, our families are breathing down our necks to produce heirs, sons and daughters who would take over after us.
Samuel and I have no issue getting married. I might even like it. A beautiful wife, her body hot to warm me up when I get into my bed after a hard day at the site, what’s not to love? Samuel is a consummate ladies’ man, but even he’ll settle down and enjoy it.
Not Cedar, though; yeah, his mama, a poet by the way, called her son Cedar. One would think with a name like Cedar he’d have a sunny disposition; well, they’re wrong.
Cedar is as prickly as a cactus. Women take one look at his growly face, and they turn the other way.
He has no plans of marrying anyone, maybe not since that terror of a little girl, four years younger than us, wrote her name on his face in permanent marker while he slept, then poured honey all over him, hoping the ants would come out to feast. They did.
We were camping with our families and sleeping in a tent.
Cedar was swollen for a week from the ant bites and then had to endure the ridicule of being bested by a girl during all the activities that followed our outdoor vacation.
In her defense, she was six years old and we were ten, and when she asked each of us to marry her, Samuel and I said yes, sure. Cedar said no. It's his fault, really.
We look at Cedar, his arms folded over his chest, a scowl on his face; even his tattoos look angry. I can’t help but grin, and so does Samuel.
“Well, according to the internet, yes,” Samuel says, answering my question about how we go about discipling her.
“Or we just go by this article," Samuel says.
“How to discipline your brat by Roscher Rose. Step one, give her chores to perform,” Samuel reads.
“If she does not perform the chores, introduce one of these punishments. Be careful to ease into them slowly, one at a time. Over the knee spanking. Standing in the corner. Make her write lines. Blah, blah, blah...” he says bored before he lights up and continues.
“Okay, step twenty-six. If all the above fail, insert some ginger into her asshole, spank her, make her write lines, and put her to stand in the corner with the ginger root still intact; she’ll be the sweetest little brat afterward. Guaranteed or you get your money back.”
“Yeah, I say we skip to step twenty-six straight away to ensure she obeys us from the get-go."
I chuckle. Trust Cedar to go the hardest route first.
“I mean, what if just being out here, the fresh air, away from the noise of the city, is enough to turn her into a good girl?” I say, although there’s not much conviction in my voice, not when the thought of her standing naked right there in the corner of our living room, facing the wall with a piece of ginger root stinging her sweet little asshole to hell, makes my blood run a little hotter.
Ah fuck.
Coral Carlson, daughter of our father’s best friend, Carl Carlson. So of course when our fathers called us up and told us we needed to discipline the girl before she was married off as a favor to their best friend, we had no choice.
Now the girl is on her way to us, with those luscious lips on that full-backed talking mouth of hers and her long dark chocolate hair bouncing with every step she takes as she wreaks havoc on the world.
And with that ass of hers, snug, round, and a perfect handful in a pair of jeans that cost more money than should be allowed.
That’s how she looked the last time we caught a glimpse of her, about a year ago.
And that time she was making some poor soul snivel and cry when she keyed his car because he wronged her friend.
Yeah, that Coral Carlson.
And three hours late—her father sent us her tracker, so we saw all the ways Ms. Carlson got herself lost—the sound of a vehicle pulled up outside.
A peek out the window and Samuel and I are blinded by the sight of a four-wheel drive so fucking pink, it hurt to look at, with some pop song blaring loud enough to wake the cremated.
Cedar grunts.
Trouble has arrived, and she comes in pink.