Hottie Lumberjack

by Tawna Fenske

  As we walk into the living room, I’m struck by a scene from the world’s weirdest children’s book. A uniformed police officer I’ve never seen before sits in the oversized leather chair with a rabbit stretched out across his knees.

  Kitty-corner from him is Mark in lumberjack plaid. He’s scrubbing a hand over his beard, looking pensive and edgy. He glances up as we walk in, and there’s something I can’t read in his brown eyes.

  “Chelsea,” he says. “Everything okay?”

  I’m not sure if he’s talking about the spa date or if something else happened, but I nod as I reach the living room. “Of course. What’s going on?”

  “Ma’am.” The uniformed officer sets the rabbit on the floor and stands as Austin comes in from outside. Everyone turns to look at him as he strides across the room to join us.

  “Chelsea.” Austin nods at me, then stoops to give Bree a quick kiss. “Just taking a look outside. Mark thought he heard a noise.”

  “What kind of noise?” I glance at Mark, grateful his instincts told him to stay inside with Libby while an armed cop checked it out.

  “Like something hitting the side of the house,” he mutters. “Probably nothing. We’re all getting a little paranoid.”

  Austin’s still standing beside me, and he clears his throat. “Chelsea, have a seat,” he says. “Officer Leopold here brought some photos for you to look at.”

  Mark scoots over to make room for me, and I settle in beside him. I study his face, wondering if I should be worried. “Is Libby—”

  “Fast asleep,” he says. “With the door closed and a cowbell hanging from the doorknob so we’ll hear her coming if she steps out.”

  I have so many questions, not the least of which is where the hell did Mark get a cowbell? But Officer Leopold is spreading photos out on the coffee table, so I direct my attention at him.

  “There are some more graphic ones in this envelope,” he says. “But we’ll start with these. Do you recognize this man?”

  I stare at the photos. The guy in the photo has a scruffy blond beard and a scar across one cheek. He’s about fifty pounds heavier than I remember, but I’d know that face anywhere.

  “That’s Charlie.” I swallow hard, trying to get my bearings. “Charles Crawford, a guy I dated years ago.”

  Bree peers over my shoulder and frowns. “Something looks weird about him.”

  I glance back at the photos, and that’s when I notice. His eyes are open, but he lies motionless looking still and stiff and—

  “Dead?” I look up at the police, both of whom have lapsed into stoic cop mode. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Officer Leopold looks at Austin, then back at me. “He was shot three times at close range. In the—uh—groin area.”

  “Oh my God.” I frown down at the photos, noticing they’re all from the waist up. “What happened?”

  “His wife,” Austin says. “They’d only been married a few months, but he took her last name. Hiding his identity, probably. That’s why we couldn’t track him down right away.”

  I stare at the images, not sure what to say. This person I loved once is dead. I hated him more than I loved him, and feared him even more than that, but still. That’s a lot of emotion to have tangled up with someone whose pulse isn’t beating anymore.

  Mark must sense my mixed-up stew of emotions because he reaches over and puts a steadying hand over mine. “Tell her the rest,” he says to Austin.

  Bree frowns. “There’s more?”

  Austin clears his throat and looks at me. “These photos were taken two months ago,” he says. “Charles Crawford has nothing to do with what’s been happening to you.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh.

  The cops exchange a look. Officer Leopold stands up and starts scooping the photos back into the envelope. “We really thought there was a good chance he could be behind this,” he says. “A lot of the pieces fit, and the fact that he was unaccounted for seemed noteworthy.”

  “Right.” I watch the last photo vanish into the envelope as Austin stands, too, then helps Bree to her feet.

  “We’ve got officers driving past your house several times a day,” he says. “In the meantime, we think it’s safest for you to stay here. For you to keep a low profile while we try to figure out who the hell might want to mess with you.”

  Mark flinches at the word “hell,” which seems strange. He gets to his feet and helps me up, steadying me in case my knees buckle.

  “I’m okay,” I assure him, assure them all. Bree’s looking at me with concern in her eyes. “I’m fine.”

  Bree touches my arm. “It has to be a shock.”

  I nod, not sure what else to say. “It is.” I look back at the cops. “Thank you for showing me the photos.”

  It sounds dumb when I say it out loud. Who in their right mind would be grateful for images of a dead ex-lover? But Austin just nods.

  “It was self-defense,” he says. “Apparently Crawford had been abusing his wife.”

  “So she shot him in the crotch.” I can’t say I’m sorry, or that I’m even surprised. Mark’s watching me like he’s unsure how to respond.

  “We’ll let you know if we learn anything else,” Austin says, already headed for the door. “In the meantime, stay alert. Contact us immediately if you notice anything unusual.”

  Bree loops her arm through his, following him to the door. “We’ll have extra security watching this cabin,” she says. “You can feel safe here, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The cops and Bree make their way to the door, and I let them out, babbling pleasantries I’m only half hearing. When Mark closes the door behind them, he leans back against it and looks at me.

  “How are you really?”

  “Fine.” I step forward, tentatively at first. “I really am. But could I get a hug?”

  I don’t have to ask twice. He envelops me in those big, strong arms and strokes my hair without saying a word. It’s the best thing in the world, and I think about how many guys would try to fill the silence with platitudes. They’d tell me things happen for a reason or issue some chest-thumping assurances about keeping me safe.

  But not Mark Bracelyn. He just strokes my back like he’s gentling a horse and holds me until I don’t need to be held anymore.

  I draw back at last and grab hold of his hands. I want to look him in the eye, but I’m not ready to break contact. “I’m not sad,” I tell him. “Part of me is glad that someone who hurt me can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

  “Understandable.”

  “But I do feel—untethered. Like something’s shifted in my universe, and I’m not sure what to do about it.”

  His brown eyes hold mine, compassion tethering us together. “You thought it was him,” he says softly. “You thought Crawford was behind everything.”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “I guess I did. I mean, it sorta made sense.”

  Not all the pieces fit, but still. Who else could possibly want to terrorize me?

  A shiver ripples up my arms, and I hope Mark doesn’t notice.

  “The police will figure it out,” he says. “And in the meantime, I’ve got you. We all do.”

  “Thanks.”

  We stand there like that for a long time. A clock ticks on the wall, but we don’t let go of each other’s hands. We stare into each other’s eyes with heat growing between us. I know I’m not the only one feeling it. I can see it in his eyes like a kettle of dark chocolate going from a slow simmer to a hard boil.

  “Mark.” My voice is so husky I almost don’t recognize it. “Will you—”

  “Yes.”

  A smile tugs the edges of my mouth. “How do you know what I was going to ask?”

  “I just do.”

  And he does. It’s in his eyes, he wants me as much as I want him.

  “Then do it.” I lick my lips, hoping to God we’re on the same page. That he’s not thinking it’s time to unload the dishwasher while I’m wanting him to— “Make
love to me,” I breathe. “Right now. Take me to your room and throw me back on the bed and make me forget there are men in the world who’d use their strength for bad instead of good.”

  I haven’t even gotten all the words out when Mark scoops me into his arms. He picks me up like I weigh nothing at all, crushing his mouth against mine as he carries me to a side of the house I haven’t seen yet. As he shoulders the door open on the master suite, I’m grateful this room is far away from where Libby sleeps.

  He tosses me back on the bed and prowls over me. “What you said the other night,” he says, voice low and heated. “About liking it rough. When you were with your girlfriends you said—”

  “Yes,” I tell him. “That’s what I want.”

  “Because I can be gentle,” he says. “So fucking gentle you wouldn’t believe I’m the same guy.”

  I shake my head and reach down to tug my shirt over my head. “I don’t want gentle,” I tell him. “I want you.”

  His eyes flash, and I know he understands. Right now, I need to be possessed. I want to be claimed and overpowered and convinced there’s someone big and powerful in control of everything, at least for a little while.

  He kisses me again, hard this time, his tongue grazing mine as he pushes me back onto the bed. His hand covers my breast, squeezing and stroking until I arch up and moan against his mouth.

  The instant my back leaves the mattress, he reaches under me to unhook my bra. He flicks it open with one hand, baring me to him. Lowering his mouth, he licks and sucks and devours me until I’m breathless and panting.

  “Take it off,” I growl as I claw at his shirt. “I need to see you.”

  He’s reluctant to let go of my breasts, but he does it. I’ve never seen a guy unbutton a shirt so fast, and then it’s flying across the room with his T-shirt.

  Angling up on my elbows, I trace my fingers over the scar. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t move away, either. A silent understanding shimmers between us with no words at all.

  I see you. Scars and all, I see you and I want you.

  Then he’s kissing me again, kissing me as he unfastens my jeans and I claw at his and we somehow manage to get each other’s pants off with our lips still fused together. My hands find their way into the front of his boxers, and I gasp against his mouth.

  He draws back, hesitant for the first time since this started. “We can go slow,” he says. “Or not at all if you’re worried about—”

  “No.” I lick my lips and tighten my fist around him, making his eyes close. “A huge cock is not a problem.”

  His pupils dilate, and he gives a quick nod. Message received. I’m not kidding about wanting things a little dirty, a little rough.

  Mark stands up and goes over to the bedroom door. He pushes it shut and flips the lock, then walks over to the nightstand. “You can tell me no at any time,” he says. “Even after we’re—once I’m—”

  “I know,” I tell him. And I do. There aren’t many things I know with absolute certainty, but the fact that Mark would never hurt me is one of them.

  My hips are already lifting as he sheathes himself with the condom. I’m squirming and panting and yes, stealing a quick glance at the condom wrapper for the expiration date.

  Yeah, I’ve been burned before.

  “Just bought ‘em yesterday,” Mark says, reading my mind. Which is scary as hell, or maybe it isn’t. There’s something wonderful about not needing to talk through every detail, to share every thought out loud if I want to be understood. Mark just gets me.

  My legs fall open, and he moves between them, his hips wide and solid. I’ve never been with a man this big before, and the weight of him on my chest is deliciously overpowering. Bracing himself on his forearms, he stares into my eyes. His pupils swim in a molten sea of chocolate as he searches my eyes and grazes my slick core.

  “Chelsea.” He closes his eyes, and I realize that’s the entirety of his statement. Just my name, whispered like a prayer as he slides into me.

  “Oh, God.” I cry out as he fills me to bursting. He’s moving slowly, but the shock of it steals my breath away while my thighs clench instinctively to pull him deeper. I arch up, eager to meet his slow, powerful thrusts.

  His eyes open again, and we’re locked in each other’s gazes, moving together like this is a choreographed dance we’ve practiced for years. I clutch at his shoulders, grateful we’re face to face. I’ve never been one for eye contact during sex, for the weighty intimacy that comes with it. But it’s different with Mark, and I have no idea how he makes me feel both cherished and conquered at the same time.

  “Chelsea.” There’s an urgency in the word this time. “You feel so good.”

  “So do you.” My words slur as he hits something really good, and I practically levitate off the bed. “Yes.”

  He smiles and keeps moving, slow and steady and so deep it takes my breath away. I angle up to kiss his scar, skimming my lips over its smooth ridges. His breath goes ragged, and I don’t know if it’s the kisses or the delicious friction between us that’s causing it. All I know is that I’m close. The sensation’s building like a roar in my ears, like the thunder of a charging army.

  “Mark!” I bite down on his shoulder as the first wave hits. My body bows up to meet him, and I cry out again. “Oh, God.”

  He’s right there with me; I can tell by the way he drives in harder and growls my name. I’m humming with pleasure, panting and clenching and clinging to him like he’s my lifeboat in a churning ocean. I swear to God I almost pass out.

  Slowly, the sensation ebbs. He eases off me, trailing a hand down the length of my body as I lie there with my eyes closed and my whole system buzzing with glorious sensory overload.

  “You have a great smile.”

  I open my eyes to see him peering down at me in wonder. I didn’t even know I was smiling, but the way he’s staring at me makes me grin wider.

  “You’re pretty damn good at making me smile,” I tell him.

  His laughter is a soft rumble as he rolls away to get rid of the condom. He’s back in an instant, pulling the covers around us and cradling me against his chest. His big body curls around me like a protective shell.

  My own shell is melting; I can feel it. Those walls I put up, the reservations I have, they’re dissolving like a sugar cube in warm tea. I know that’s corny, but I feel it happening, and I’m powerless to resist.

  I slide slowly into dreamland, wondering if he feels the same.

  Chapter 14

  MARK

  I wake to the smell of brewing coffee and the weird sense that something’s shifted in my world. When I open my eyes, Chelsea’s tiptoeing into the bedroom holding two mugs and wearing my favorite plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The top three buttons are undone, revealing the fragrant hollow where I buried my face hours ago. Her face lights up when she sees me, and I wonder what the hell I did in a past life to deserve something this fucking fantastic.

  “Morning,” she whispers. “I hope it’s okay I fed the rabbit.”

  “Thank you,” I say, accepting one of the mugs from her as she climbs back into bed and snuggles up next to me. “Is Libby still asleep?”

  “Out cold,” she confirms. “Between the sleepover and the pool day and poker night with your friends, I’m betting she’ll stay zonked for another couple hours.”

  I sip my coffee, grateful for the bitter warmth and the pressure of Chelsea’s bare thigh against mine. I got up in the night and threw on a pair of boxers, figuring I’d rather not sprint naked from bed in the event of a fire or sick kid or crazy nutjob harassing my girlfriend.

  Girlfriend.

  The word slips through my subconscious before I realize I’ve been rolling it around like a marble in my palm. Is that how Chelsea would see us? I’m guessing most single moms don’t leap into bed with guys they’re not at least a little serious about, but what the hell do I know?

  My mom had sleepovers. Not a lot, but some.
It drove my dad crazy, but it’s not like he had any claim to her. She was clear that she never planned to get married, at least not to him.

  “What are you thinking?”

  I glance at Chelsea and wonder what she read on my face. “Thinking about my mom.”

  “Really?” She tilts her head, and I wish I could go back and rewind and say something else. Admitting I’m thinking about my mother while sitting half-naked with a beautiful woman in the same bed where we had crazy, passionate sex all night might be a little creepy.

  But I’m already waist deep in weird, so I keep wading. “You remind me of her a little.”

  If Chelsea’s offended, she doesn’t show it. Just watches my face like she’s waiting for more. Her gaze skitters over my scar, and I wonder if I should tell her the story behind it.

  But no, that would be douchey. I’m already at risk of seeming like some wannabe hero, so no sense making it worse. Besides, describing my mom’s house fire doesn’t paint her in the best light. It wasn’t her fault she lit the candles on my birthday cake, thinking she heard me coming through the door. Not her fault she got to talking with the UPS guy, and the candles caught the curtains on fire and—hell, anyway, I know it sounds bad.

  And I want Chelsea to like my mom.

  How’s that for crazy; I’m already thinking of introducing her to my mother?

  Chelsea’s still watching me, like she’s waiting me out or something. I lift my mug and chug half the coffee in two gulps, intent on keeping my mouth shut so I don’t say something dumb.

  “You’ve said you really like your mom,” she says finally. “So, I guess that’s a good thing if I remind you of her?”

  “Definitely,” I say, glad she’s not pissed. “I don’t mean it in a creepy way. Just that you’re both smart and funny and strong as hell.”

  She smiles, biting her lip the way she does when she’s got something on her mind. There’s a stiffness in her shoulders that wasn’t there a second ago, and I wonder if I’m totally botching this morning after thing.