Page 3 of Claimed By the Lumberjack

I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my arm and glance toward the tree line just as a car eases around the bend, kicking up dust and pine needles. Shiny. Red. Small. Not the best car for a mountain road. It crawls up my drive like it knows it doesn’t belong here, which—spoiler alert—is true.

I see the driver and almost drop my axe. She steps out like she’s on a runway instead of a muddy clearing in the woods. Skinny jeans. A fitted jacket that’s probably never seen dirt. And boots with heels, for Christ’s sake. Completely impractical and exactly the kind of thing someone from the city would wear when they think they’re doing “rustic.”

She’s tall. Curvy in a way that makes a man notice. Hair in a high ponytail that’s already being tugged loose by the wind. She shades her eyes with one hand, squints up at me like I’m the one who’s out of place.

Great. I sink the axe into the stump and wait.

She takes a few cautious steps forward, blinking against the sun. “Hi,” she says, voice bright and a little breathless. “Are you Sawyer Holt?”

I don’t answer right away. Just stare. Because what the hell is she doing up here?

She clears her throat, the smile on her lips faltering slightly. “I’m Tessa Hart. I’m a journalist with Roam magazine. I’m working on a—”

“No.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m not interested.” I reach for the axe.

“You don’t even know what I’m here to ask.”

“I know enough.”

She plants her hands on her hips, those curves doing exactly what they’re supposed to under that jacket, and cocks her head. “You’re here about those damn photos, aren’t you?”

She blinks. “So you’ve seen them?”

“I don’t have to. Dottie printed one out and tacked it to the general store bulletin board like I’m the special of the week.”

I turn away, grabbing a log and setting it on the stump.

“Listen,” she says, following me. “The account has gone viral. People are obsessed. They want to know who you are, what you do, where you buy your flannel.”

“I don’t wear flannel.”

“Not today, but according to the pictures, you do.”

I shoot her a look. She doesn’t back down. She’s a city girl, but not soft. There’s something in her stance, chin lifted, shoulders squared, that says she’s not easily rattled. Even out here. Even staring down a sweaty, shirtless stranger with an axe.

“I’m not a story,” I tell her.

She shrugs. “Everyone’s a story.”

“Well, I don’t want to be yours.”

The log splits clean under my next swing. She watches me, her lips slightly parted, her eyes tracing the movement.

Yeah, she’s checking me out. She tries not to show it, but I see the flush in her cheeks, the way her gaze flicks over my chest, then quickly away.

“Look,” she says, a little breathier now. “I’m not here to make your life difficult. I just want a quote. Maybe a short interview. Something about how a town full of hot, antisocial men became the internet’s favorite fantasy.”

“There’s no fantasy here,” I say flatly.

She makes a sound, half laugh, half scoff, and pulls her phone from her pocket. Swipes to something and holds it up.

It’s me. Or at least, the version of me Dottie captured that snowy afternoon a few winters back. Flannel. Beard full of snow. Eyes like I hadn’t slept in a week. Yeah. Fantasy.

“Tell that to the 820,000 people who liked this,” she says. “You’ve been turned into a lumberjack thirst meme.”

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