Page 1 of Claimed By the Lumberjack

Chapter One

Tessa

There’s a reason I avoid flying whenever possible, but it’s not because I’m dramatic. Okay, maybe a little. But mostly, it’s because regional planes are terrifying, and this one, currently shaking like it’s about to split in half, is Exhibit A.

We dip suddenly, and I grip the armrest with white knuckles, praying softly to every deity I’ve ever heard of, plus a few I might’ve made up on the spot.

“Please let me live long enough to finish this story,” I whisper through gritted teeth.

The man beside me, a farmer by the looks of his overalls and the bucket of something chicken-scented resting between his boots, chuckles.

“She don’t bite,” he says in a lazy Southern drawl. “Just bounces a little.”

“She’s bouncing like she’s possessed.”

He shrugs. “Spring air.”

The plane lurches again, and I consider writing my obituary in the Notes app.Tessa Hart, 29. Died chasing viral thirst content. May she rest in pine-scented peace.

The flight attendant announces our descent like we haven’t already been nosediving for the past fifteen minutes. I glance at the little plane icon on my travel app, inching toward the dot thatis Pine Hollow—a town so small it barely registers on the map, but it sure as hell registered on the internet.

@TheMenOfPineHollow

The Instagram account that launched a thousand fantasies. High-def, woodsy thirst traps of flannel-clad men chopping logs, hauling timber, and looking like they just stepped off the cover of a rugged romance novel.

There’s one in particular that haunts me. A man, shirt clinging wet to a broad chest, snow in his beard, eyes shadowed under a ball cap, standing in front of a log cabin like he’s just waiting for someone. I saved that one. Purely for research, of course.

When my editor, Brooke, called me into her office three days ago, she didn’t even say hello. Just shoved her phone into my hands and said, “Tessa. Find out who these men are. Interview them. Get the story beforeBuzzedUporModern Wilderdoes. Bonus points if one of them lets you chop wood with him.”

So here I am, trading city traffic for tree-lined roads, overpriced oat milk lattes for questionable diner coffee, and—hopefully—trading dry spell energy for a little hands-on, boots-on-the-ground lumberjack action.

For journalistic integrity, obviously.

The plane finally lands on what might be the shortest runway I’ve ever seen, flanked by pine trees, fog, and one very unimpressed deer.

I step out into the thick, humid air and instantly regret my outfit. Heeled ankle boots. Skinny jeans. A trench coat that screams New York fashion week instead of rural mountain realism. My suitcase, hot pink, hard-shell, and very out of place, clunks along behind me as I navigate the tiny gravel parking lot in search of my rental car.

Rick’s Rentals is more of a hand-painted sign on a shack than an actual business, but I grab the keys to a mud-splattered Subaru and follow my GPS into town.

Pine Hollow is adorable. Main Street has actual string lights. The general store is called “Dottie’s,” the café has a window full of cinnamon rolls, and I pass two pickup trucks with golden retrievers riding shotgun.

It’s also very quiet here. Still. Even the air has weight. Like, if you listened hard enough, you could hear the trees breathing.

I check into the Hollow Hearth Inn, the only one in town, which smells like cedarwood and lavender and might be haunted by a very sweet grandmother. There’s a handwritten card waiting in my room.

*Welcome, Tessa! - Dottie :) *

And cookies. Oatmeal. Still warm. Dottie might be a witch…or an angel.

After dropping my bags, I head into town, pulling up the Instagram account as I walk. The latest photo is tagged just outside of town:“Thirsty Thursday: Sawyer says hydrate or die-drate.”

Sawyer.

He’s the one fromthephoto. The one with the axe, the beard, the snow. My stomach does a little flip. The logical part of me says it’s from the bumpy flight and the fact that I haven’t eaten today. The other part? The one that has spent more time than necessary zooming in on a man’s forearms? Yeah. That part’s having a minor meltdown.

I find the café, Annie’s, by smell alone. The aroma of cinnamon, coffee, and vanilla pulls me in like a cartoon character floating on scent lines.

Inside, it’s bustling. Locals chatting over pie. A teenage couple sharing a milkshake. An older man in a flannel shirt is reading the paper like it’s the most riveting novel in the world.

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