Page 2 of Claimed By the Lumberjack

As I step in, conversations dip. It doesn’t stop, just shifts. I’ve got that outsider energy, and they know it.

A woman behind the counter waves me over. She’s got a high ponytail, an apron dusted with flour, and a warm smile.

“You’re not from around here,” she says, pouring a cup of coffee without me even asking. “I’m guessing you’re the magazine gal.”

I blink. “How do you know who I am?”

She laughs. “Small town. Big gossip. Linda saw you step off the plane and called it in before you hit Main Street.”

I glance around. Sure enough, there’s a woman in a bold floral dress by the window whispering behind her hand and watching me like I might start handing out tabloids.

“I’m Tessa,” I say, accepting the coffee. “And yes. I’m working on a story.”

“Annie,” she says, sliding a cinnamon roll toward me. “On the house. Call it a welcome to Pine Hollow, home of the sexy men, special.”

I laugh. “You’re embracing the fame, huh?”

She shrugs. “We don’t get many headlines unless a bear breaks into the post office. This? This is fun.”

I pull up the Instagram account again and show her the latest photo. “This guy. Sawyer Holt. He’s the one who shows up the most. Is he real?”

Annie snorts. “Oh, he’s real, all right. Real grumpy. Real hot. Real hard to get a full sentence out of.”

“So a dream.”

She grins. “If your dream involves a man who growls more than he talks and prefers trees to people? Sure.”

My gaze lingers on the photo. There’s something about the way he stands. Like he’s carrying weight. Not just physically but emotionally. Like he’s holding back something big.

“Where can I find him?”

Annie leans in, lowers her voice like we’re sharing classified information. “He runs Holt Timber. Lives up on the mountain past Ridgeway Trail. Doesn’t come into town much. Except to buy supplies. Or threaten Dottie with bodily harm if she prints another one of his photos and tapes it to the bakery window.”

“That happened?”

Annie just winks.

I take another sip of coffee and glance outside. The sky’s gone heavy. Gray clouds are building like a mood shift.

“Thanks for the tips,” I say, standing. “Guess I’ll be heading into the woods tomorrow.”

Annie hands me a to-go cup and a warning smile. “Wear boots. And maybe some body armor.”

I step outside into the wind, which whips my hair into a frenzy, and glance down at my phone again.

Sawyer Holt. A man who lives without Wi-Fi, avoids people, and looks like a god who got lost in the mountains.

Chapter Two

Sawyer

The axe bites through the wood with a clean, satisfying crack. The sun’s out just enough to glint off the edge of the blade and catch on the sweat running down my back. It’s warm today, unseasonably so for early spring. The kind of warmth that clings to your skin and makes your clothes feel heavy.

I don’t bother with a shirt. No point. I’m already drenched, and it’s not like anyone’s coming up here. No one ever does. Not unless they’re lost. Or trying to sell me something. Neither of which ends well.

I line up the next log on the stump, roll my shoulders, and swing. There’s comfort in this work. In the rhythm. The sound. The sting in my palms and the ache in my forearms. Out here, the noise in my head gets quieter. Just me and the trees and the weight of the axe in my hands.

I’m halfway through the next swing when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel. My grip tightens. It’s not the mail guy. He only comes on Mondays. Not the supply truck either; it’s too light. This is something smaller and driving very slow.

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