Page 6 of Pining for You

He turned away, took two steps, and looked over his shoulder. “Charge him full rate. No discounts for that old geezer.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure if the geezer comment referred to Pogue or Tamblin.

“What type of damage, do you know?” In other words, would I need my climbing gear, and if I did, was Nash ready to handle my lines? Having a groundsman who didn’t know how to stay clear of falling limbs or how to keep a line taut was trouble—and a potentially fatal injury—in the making.

“The main house is an older Victorian two-story brick home. Full-grown maple snapped off and went right through the roof from what Frank says. I don’t know what type of tree took out the cottage, but knowing the state of them, it could have been taken down by a frickin’ matchstick.”

“You’ve done work there before?”

“Old man Tamblin called me in for a quote about…” John pursed his lips and stared at his notepad, “five, maybe closer to seven years ago, but he balked when I told him how much work needed to be done and how much it was going to cost. That decision has just shit the bed on him, hasn’t it?”

The refrain of the day after every bad storm in these parts.

3

BRAD

When I arrived at the Bordon place, I parked behind a beat-up blue half ton. Huh. I could have sworn Nash drove a well-worn Honda Civic. Had he traded it in once he realized a truck would be handier for his new job?

I was standing out front, checking out the fallen ash when I heard the roar of a chain saw. Following the sound to the back yard, I found Nash down beside a rough shed, expertly wielding a chain saw on a limb that had broken off a Manitoba maple. I stayed quiet and watched, assessing his excellent technique. The proper attire—safety boots, safety gloves, ear protection, hard hat, safety glasses and visor—were a given, though they didn’t look like the brand PRP had provided. Missing were the chain saw chaps, which I know John insisted all his employees wore when working a chain saw. Feet braced slightly apart, knees bent, the chain saw held to one side so if it bucked, it wouldn’t end up in his face. Good, whoever had trained him had trained him well.

Should I distract Nash from what he was doing or knock on Mrs. Bordon’s door and announce my arrival first? The decision was taken from me when the patio door opened and Mrs. Bordon peered down at me.

“Hey, Mrs. B, John sent me to look after your mountain ash.”

That’s when I noticed the gigantic creamy-gold chicken tucked under her arm, her other hand scratching under its chin.

“This is Henrietta,” Mrs. B said, pride filling her voice when she followed my gaze. “She doesn’t like storms so she needed some extra cuddles.”

All righty then. Interesting that the storm bothered the mother-clucker, but the noise from the chain saw didn’t.

The chain saw stopped, and I turned to talk to Nash. I stopped when he—she—lifted his—her—visor. Dark eyes stared back at me, assessing me with more intensity than I’d had assessing her moments earlier. Why was it I got the feeling I didn’t get a passing grade?

“You must be the arborist.” She removed her hard hat, revealing dark hair tied up in a messy bun, then walked toward me while removing her work gloves. Once she got close enough, she stuck out a hand. “I’m Chloe Pogue. My dad sent me to check in on Mrs. Bordon.”

Her throaty voice shot right down my spine and lodged in my balls as my brain pictured her in bed beside me, above me, surrounding me. Mike Pogue’s daughter? How come I didn’t know her? I didn’t remember running into her in high school—which we should have done considering everyone in Port Paxton attended the single high school in town.

Chloe was a few inches shorter than me, with high cheek bones that hinted at native ancestry, which was common around here with the nearby First Nation reserve on the other side of the island.

I took her outstretched hand. Her grip was as strong as any groundsman I’d worked with. My brain immediately supplied the idea of her hand stroking my dick. Oh shit. I did not need to sport a woody right now. This was not insta-love I told myself sternly, a term one of my elder sisters insisted on using, much to my chagrin, but my brain decided its reaction was definitely insta-lust at the minimum.

Keep it professional, Calhoun.

CHLOE

I assessed the guy as he shook my hand. From his calluses to the strength of his grip. It set my “want him in bed” meter chiming.

Rugged. Good eye contact. And tall.

Was it the fact he was my ex’s complete opposite or something else entirely?

I’m almost six feet tall, so a lot of guys my height or less were intimidated by me right off the bat. This guy? I had to look up at least another six inches. He wore a Pine Ridge Prunery hard hat, which told me where he worked and why he was here. So, gainfully employed, another check on my to be considered list. The guy’s thick red lumberjack-style beard didn’t hurt, either. It begged me to tug on it to bring his face closer so I could kiss him, press that hard body against mine. To bury his face deep between my thighs and pleasure me.

Because of the notoriety thrust upon me thanks to my ex’s exploits, it had been a while since I’d been with a guy. Those few who had been invited for a romp in the hay, I never promised a commitment. I wasn’t going to go through that hell again. I couldn’t afford to, either with the heartache it caused or the financial losses like those I was still paying off. Sex, sure. Commitment? No thanks.

It wasn’t just the sex I missed—hell, my toys could fulfill that need. No, I missed the casual touches to my back, breath on my neck when they held me or twined their fingers with mine while we lay on the bed after sex, the warmth of their body beside me on a cold winter’s night as I snuggled up to them. One of us stretched out on the sofa, their head on my lap or mine on theirs, discussing plot points or our favorite actors or actresses as we binge watched a television show. Opening the door after a long day at work to someone calling out, welcoming you home, asking how your day was.

The loneliness at not having any of those things struck me hard from out of the blue. Damn it, why was this hitting me now?

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