Page 12 of Caught By the Lumberjack

I took another bite, savoring the complex flavors. "Fine. It's better than the frozen filet mignon."

"Which is actually just a meat patty with preservative-filled gravy," she reminded me.

"Which is actually just a meat patty with preservative-filled gravy," I conceded. "This is... really good. You could actually open that restaurant."

A genuine smile lit up her face, transforming her from merely pretty to breathtaking. "Thank you."

We continued eating, sharing more about our backgrounds—her upbringing on the west coast, my childhoodspent learning Montana forestry alongside my father. With each exchange, the animosity between us softened further, replaced by something far more dangerous: understanding.

"So we're actually not mortal enemies?" she mused, leaning back in her chair, glass in hand. "Who would have thought?"

"Seems like we were chained together by fate," I remarked, then winced at my own cheesy line.

To my relief, she laughed. "That's terrible. Has that line ever worked for you?"

"I don't usually hit on women I find chained to my trees."

"Oh? Is that what you're doing? Hitting on me?" Her eyes held mine, challenge, and something else dancing in their hazel depths.

The atmosphere shifted, charged suddenly with electricity that had nothing to do with the storm outside.

"I don't usually go for naive city girls," I said, my voice dropping lower.

"And I don't usually find myself attracted to guys who chop down trees." She didn't break eye contact. "But maybe you're not just a guy who chop down trees."

"And maybe you're not so naive after all."

We stared at each other across the table, the air between us practically vibrating with tension. Outside, thunder crashed, closer than before, and the lights flickered once, twice, then went out completely.

"Perfect timing," I muttered, the cabin now illuminated only by the fireplace.

"I'll help you find candles," she offered, standing.

We moved around each other in the dim light, occasionally brushing arms or shoulders, each contact sendingsparks across my skin. I located candles in a drawer and matches on the mantel. Soon, the room was bathed in a warm, flickering glow that softened everything—the cabin, the storm outside, the edges of my resistance to her.

Clementine stood by the fireplace, the light playing across her features, turning her hair to spun gold. My too-large flannel hung from her petite frame, and she'd never looked more desirable.

"Thank you," she said suddenly.

"For what?"

"Giving me shelter from the storm. Letting me cook in your kitchen. Not calling the sheriff when I chained myself to your tree."

I moved closer, drawn to her like a moth to flame. "Don't thank me yet. I still might call him in the morning."

She laughed softly, then reached up, surprising me by brushing her fingertips against my jaw. "You need to shave."

"And you need to stop touching me," I said hoarsely, "if you want me to keep my distance."

Her eyes widened slightly, her pupils dilating in the dim light. "What if I don't want you to keep your distance?"

That was all it took—the final thread of my restraint snapped. I closed the space between us in one step, my hand sliding into her damp curls as I lowered my mouth to hers.

The first touch of her pillowy lips was electric, sending a current through my body that made every nerve ending fire at once. She made a small sound of surprise that quickly transformed into a moan as she rose on her tiptoes, her arms winding around my neck.

What began as exploration quickly blazed into something far more urgent. Her lips parted beneath mine, and I deepenedthe kiss, tasting bourbon and desire. Her body pressed against mine, soft curves meeting hard planes, creating a delicious friction that threatened what little remained of my self-control.

"This is probably a bad idea," I murmured against her mouth, even as my hands gripped her waist, lifting her easily.

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