Page 9 of Caught By the Lumberjack

I slipped into the offered clothes, rolling up the sleeves and pant legs to make them somewhat manageable. The shirt hung to mid-thigh, enveloping me in soft fabric that carried the scent of pine and something uniquely masculine that I assumed was just... Vaughn.

When I finally emerged, Vaughn had changed as well, now wearing dry jeans and a navy henley that stretched across his shoulders. He'd started a fire in the fireplace, the flames casting a warm glow throughout the room. Timber had settled on a large dog bed in the corner, watching us with curious eyes.

"Better?" Vaughn asked, looking up from where he knelt by the fireplace.

I nodded, suddenly self-conscious in his borrowed clothes. The flannel shirt swallowed me, making me look like a child playing dress-up. I'd rolled the sleeves, but they kept unrolling, covering my hands.

A strange expression crossed Vaughn's face as he took in the sight of me drowning in his shirt. Something darkened in his eyes before he quickly looked away.

"Fire should warm the place up soon," he said, his voice oddly rough. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll see what I can find for dinner."

I moved closer to the fireplace, drawn to its warmth. Outside, the storm raged on, rain lashing against the windows, wind howling through the trees. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but in here, everything felt unexpectedly... safe.

I sat cross-legged on the hearth rug, holding my hands out toward the flames. Vaughn moved around in the kitchenarea, the domestic sounds of cupboards opening and closing oddly comforting.

This was not how I'd expected my protest day to end—sheltered in the home of the very man I'd come to oppose, wearing his clothes, warming myself by his fire.

He returned with two mugs, handing one to me. "Hot chocolate," he explained. "Only thing sweeter than coffee that I had on hand."

The unexpected gesture touched me more than it should have. "Thank you," I said, accepting the mug and wrapping my fingers around its warmth.

Vaughn settled in an armchair nearby, his own mug cradled in hands that bore the calluses of physical labor. In the firelight, his features seemed softer somehow, less the corporate enemy and more simply... a man.

A very attractive man, my traitorous mind added, whose clothes I was now wearing, whose scent surrounded me, whose cabin sheltered me from the storm.

"So," he said, breaking the silence, "still planning to chain yourself to my trees after our tour tomorrow?"

I took a sip of hot chocolate to buy myself time. The conversation with the Ellisons earlier had planted seeds of doubt that were rapidly taking root.

"I guess that depends on what I see," I answered honestly.

He nodded, seeming to appreciate my candor. "Fair enough."

Another roll of thunder, another gust of wind rattling the windows. I pulled the sleeves of his flannel shirt over my hands, unconsciously seeking more of its warmth, more of its comfort.

Vaughn's eyes tracked the movement, lingering on my hands swallowed by his sleeves, then traveling up to my face.That same darkening I'd noticed earlier returned to his gaze, sending an unexpected shiver through me that had nothing to do with being cold.

"Looks like we're in for a long night," he said, his voice lower than before.

And as our eyes held across the firelit room, I wondered what exactly I'd gotten myself into—and whether I might discover a side of Vaughn Ridgeway that would change everything I thought I knew.

Chapter Four

Vaughn

The storm showed no signs of letting up, rain pelting against the cabin windows with increasing fury. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the room, followed by thunderclaps that made Timber whine and edge closer to the fireplace where Clementine sat huddled in my flannel shirt.

My flannel shirt. On her body. The sight was doing things to my concentration I couldn't afford.

"Hungry?" I asked, moving toward the kitchen to put some distance between us. Distance seemed wise given the direction my thoughts kept wandering.

She looked up, tucking a damp yellow curl behind her ear. "Starving, actually. Protesting works up an appetite."

"Let me guess—all that sign-holding and tree-hugging requires serious calories?"

Her lips quirked upward. "Exactly. Saving the environment is exhausting work."

I opened my refrigerator, surveying the bachelor-level contents. "Well, I hope you're in the mood for either a gourmet filet mignon or spaghetti with homemade meatballs."

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