Page 6 of Claimed By the Lumberjack

I head in with the bundle, closing the door behind me and locking it for good measure. It’s small but surprisingly clean. The mirror is slightly fogged from the heat of the fire in the next room, and the faint scent of pine soap lingers in the air.

I peel off my wet clothes and towel off quickly. The flannel shirt he gave me is soft from years of wear, oversized and warm, falling to mid-thigh. I tug the drawstring pants on and roll the waistband twice just to keep them from sliding off. The clothes—smoke and cedar.

When I step back out, Sawyer is stirring something in a pot on the stovetop. He doesn’t look up, but I see the way his shoulders shift slightly. He’s as aware of me as I am of him.

I sink onto the couch near the fire, my body aching with the kind of tired you only feel after a long day of travel, unexpected downpours, and verbal sparring with a very hot mountain man.

“Dinner?” I ask, gesturing toward the stove.

He nods. “Soup.”

“Smells good.”

“You want something else, you can cook.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I burn toast.”

He finally glances at me again and does a double take. His eyes catch on the flannel, the way it drapes off one shoulder, the rolled waistband of the sweatpants, my legs tucked under me on his couch. There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Just for a second. Hunger. Curiosity. Want. Then it’s gone, buried under that beard and a frown.

He ladles soup into two bowls and brings them over, handing one to me with a spoon. “It’s hot.”

“Thank you.”

He grunts and drops onto the chair opposite me, the firelight casting his face in warm shadows. I take a bite. Okay. Wow.

I blink. “This is really good.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I make due.”

“You cook. You chop wood. You brood. Do you also moonlight as a sexy elf or forest king?”

His eyes cut to me, and I swear one corner of his mouth twitches.

I slurp another spoonful, letting the warmth seep through me. It’s quiet in here, just the soft pop of the fire, the occasional groan of the wind outside, and our spoons clinking against ceramic.

“So,” I say after a minute, “what’s your deal?”

Sawyer doesn’t look up. “My deal?”

“Yeah. Your backstory. The reason you live alone in a cabin with no internet and hate visitors.”

He leans back, stretching his long legs out. His socked feet rest near the edge of the firelight. “Not everything needs a story.”

“Spoken like a man who has one.”

He lifts his bowl, sips, and doesn’t answer.

I lean forward, chin in hand, spoon poised midair. “Come on. Give me something.”

He considers me for a long moment, then says, “I like the quiet.”

I wait, but that’s all he offers.

“That’s it?” I ask. “That’s your whole vibe?”

He shrugs. “You wanted me to give you something.”

“Yeah, but I wanted a little moreoomph. Like ‘I used to be a Navy SEAL, but now I make artisanal maple syrup and talk to wolves.’”

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