Page 5 of Her Rugged Lumberjack

“Sounds cool. I’ve never been ice skating.”

The words make me cringe as soon as they leave my mouth. Declan might think I’m asking for an invitation, and the last thing I need is an excuse to spend more time with this gorgeous man. Working for him will already be hard enough.

“Anyway, thanks for the tour,” I say, quickly changing the topic before he can reply.

“No problem. I’ll be here tomorrow to help you out if you need it.”

My stomach sinks, but I force a smile. “Sounds good.”

As we reach the barn, Declan holds the door open for me. I move past him, accidentally brushing against his chest, and the contact makes me light-headed. He’s so big and strong, his body so hard and muscular; even being in the same room with him is enough to make my insides quiver. Every part of him radiates raw power, from his thick biceps to his broad shoulders, and something warm blooms between my legs, making it harder to breathe.

Crap, I need to get out of here.

Declan leans against the wall of the barn and opens his mouth to say something, but I get there first.

“Thanks again. See you tomorrow!”

My voice sounds strange, but I don’t hang around to see Declan’s reaction. He barely has time to say goodbye before I’m barreling out of the barn toward my car. I hop into the driver’s seat, and in my peripheral vision, I see Declan standing at the barn’s entrance, his hulking frame filling the doorway as he watches me leave. Those intense brown eyes follow me long after I’ve driven away from the Christmas tree farm, and only when I’m finally back at my apartment do I feel like I can relax.

I make myself a hot chocolate and burrow beneath a blanket on the couch, opening up my laptop. Now would be the perfect time to make some progress on my thriller novel, but mythoughts are too scattered. Instead, I open up a tab and search ‘mistletoe christmas tree farm colorado declan’. The results are disappointingly bare. There’s nothing about Declan, but plenty of information about the farm itself. Apparently, it’s been in his family for generations and used to be owned by his father, Abe. When I do a search for Abe, his obituary pops up.

Abe Thorne, 81, of Cherry Hollow, passed away peacefully on March 12th 2024. He was preceded in death by his wife of 50 years, Nancy Thorne. He is survived by his sons, Nolan and Declan Thorne, both of Cherry Hollow.

It sucks that Declan’s parents are gone. It must be a lot of responsibility, taking on the family business, trying to maintain everything his parents built. Sympathy tugs at my chest as I read Nancy’s obituary next—apparently, she passed away back in 2018. My parents might drive me crazy, but at least they’re still here.

As if on cue, my phone pings from beside me, and I groan when I read the message from my dad.

Now your mom wants the armchairs!

BOTH OF THEM!

I clench my jaw and turn my phone off, slamming the lid of my laptop closed. This is all wrong. I shouldn’t be stalking my boss and his family on social media—this is exactly the kind of crap I’m trying to avoid. Tomorrow, I’ll keep my head down and do my work. Then, when the end of December rolls around, I’ll say goodbye to Declan Thorne and his Christmas tree farm and move on with my blessedly single life in peace.

No more strange feelings in my tummy.

No more temptations.

And definitely no risk of heartbreak.

4

DECLAN

There’sa lightness in my chest as I get ready for work this morning, and it has everything to do with the curvy beauty who will be arriving at the farm in thirty minutes. It’s Margot’s first day, and I’ve been desperate to see her again ever since she left. There’s no damn logic to these feelings. She’s a stranger, but somehow, she’s already managed to take over all my thoughts. I spend a lot longer than usual trying to make my unruly beard look neater before I head out the front door of my cabin. The frozen lake is lit up by the morning sun, glowing a frosty blue color that reminds me of Margot’s eyes.

Goddammit, why am I thinking like a poet?

I’m a simple guy. Always have been. My family and the farm: those are the only two things I’ve ever cared about, yet here I am, obsessing over a stranger’s eye color. It makes no sense, but as I stride through the Christmas trees, my heart starts to pound like a bass drum, a firmthud, thud, thudthat courses through my body.

As I approach the barn, my brother is leaving it, holding a cup of cocoa in one hand and his axe in the other.

“Morning,” he says, nodding at me. “I’m going to chop down a couple of pines. You want to do the Douglas firs?”

“Not right now.” I try to keep my face neutral. “I hired somebody yesterday, so I’ll be showing her the ropes this morning.”

Nolan cocks his head. “You hired someone?”

“Yeah, a girl called Margot. She saw one of your fliers.”

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