Page 5 of Claimed By the Lumberjack

She follows me back up the drive, muttering something about horror movies and axe murderers. Her boots squelch in the mud. She slips again and grabs my arm for balance, then yanks her hand back like I burned her.

I don’t say anything, but I feel the heat of that touch all the way through my skin.

The cabin’s warm, dry, and smells like firewood and cedar. I hold the door open and watch her hesitate before stepping inside.

She looks around, wide-eyed. “It’s rustic.”

“It’s a cabin. Not a spa.”

“Could use a throw pillow.”

I grab a towel from the hook and toss it to her. “You’re dripping all over my floor.”

“Charming,” she says, but wraps it around herself. “Got a hair dryer? Hot cocoa? Flannel pajamas with little bears on them?”

“No. Yes. And maybe.”

She laughs. I hate that I like the sound of it. I head to the kitchen, stoke the fire, and try not to watch her strip off her jacket, revealing a soaked white T-shirt underneath.

She notices me noticing. Smirks. “This interview’s looking up, huh?”

I grunt and turn away, grabbing a pot to start dinner, but all I can think about is the way her shirt clings to her body. The way her mouth curves when she’s teasing me. The way my name sounds when she says it like a challenge.

This woman is a walking complication, and I don’t like complications. But I like her, and that’s a problem.

Chapter Three

Tessa

I’ve been in some ridiculous situations in my life. Once, I interviewed a pop star who insisted I crawl into her crystal meditation tent before she’d speak to me. Another time, I got locked inside a porta-potty at a desert music festival. And yet this? Stranded on a mountain in the pouring rain with a shirtless, scowling lumberjack? It might just be my favorite ridiculous situation.

Sawyer Holt is stomping around his cabin like I’m an intruder who tracked mud across his white carpet, which I would have if his floors weren’t wood.

The storm is in full tantrum mode outside, wind slapping the windows and rain hammering the roof. The air is filled with the low growl of thunder and the occasional creak of ancient pine trees swaying in protest.

I hang up my soaked jacket, trying not to wince at the cold water clinging to my skin or the fact that my white t-shirt is now translucent. My boots squelch with every step, each one louder than the last in the quiet of the cabin.

“Shoes,” Sawyer mutters without turning around, already crouched by the fireplace, stacking logs in the fire. “You’re tracking mud.”

I blink at him. “Nice to see your hospitality matches your charm.”

“You’re the one who showed up uninvited.”

I toe off my boots with a sigh, leaving them by the door, then cross my arms tightly over my chest. My shirt is soaked. My bra is soaked. Everything is clinging in ways that are decidedly uncomfortable and indecent.

He finally turns and catches sight of me standing there, wet and miserable. His eyes flick down for half a second, fast, but I catch it. A quick scan over my shirt, sticking to skin and curves and probably not leaving much to the imagination.

His jaw tightens. He mutters something under his breath and walks past me to a wooden chest under the window. He opens it and pulls out a stack of clothes—thick flannel and sweatpants.

“Here,” he says, thrusting them into my arms. “They’ll be big, but they’re dry.”

I look up at him. “You’re just giving me your clothes?”

“You want to sit around soaked all night?”

“I mean, maybe, for the attention,” I reply, letting him know I caught his wandering eyes.

His eyes narrow. “Bathroom’s through there.”

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