Page 2 of Falling for the Lumberjack

He was not traditionally handsome but devastating all the same. All sharp angles, chiseled cheekbones, and a mouth that looked like it hadn’t smiled in years. His eyes, deep-set beneath dark brows, seemed to hold secrets and shadows. Permanentlines were etched between those brows, a testament to a lifetime of scowling—or perhaps bearing burdens he refused to share.

Everything about Landry was big and rugged and made my curvy body want to curl up against it. To test the hardness of his body against the softness of mine. To discover if those perpetually tense shoulders would finally relax under my touch.

I hated how badly I wanted him. How my hands trembled even as I tightened them around the steering wheel. The traitorous flutter in my stomach whenever our paths crossed. The way my body recognized him before my mind did—responding with a visceral awareness that defied logic or common sense.

A very small, reckless part of me wanted to floor the gas pedal, play a little game of chicken with the big guy. But knowing him, he’d let my truck slam into him just to prove a point. He’d stand there, immovable as the mountain itself, and dare me.

I pulled up beside him, rolling down my window and plastering on my best fake-sweet smile. The kind that showed too many teeth and reached nowhere near my eyes.

“Carter.” His greeting was a gruff, disinterested grunt that nonetheless sent unwelcome shivers down my spine. Not Sally, not even a polite Miss Carter. Just my last name, as if using my first name would be too personal. As if keeping that distance was vital to whatever rigid code he lived by.

“McAllister,” I shot back, my voice syrupy sweet, the saccharine tone designed to grate against his perpetual stoicism. “I brought your part. You’re welcome.”

He said nothing. Just stared at me with those stormy eyes that were brown one moment, black as pitch the next, depending on his mood. Which was always grumpy. The intensity of his gaze sent heat blooming across my skin—not from embarrassment, but from something far more personal. Recognition, perhaps. Awareness, definitely.

Against my better judgment, I stared right back. Because, well—he was hot. Unfairly, unjustly hot. The kind of hot that compromised common sense and good decisions. The kind of hot that made responsible women contemplate wildly irresponsible actions.

“Cutting it close,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble that seemed to rise from deep within his chest.

I blinked, momentarily distracted by the movement of his mouth. The firm line of it, the slight downward tilt at the corners. “Excuse me?”

“The storm’s coming in.” He gestured with a slight nod toward the gathering clouds, dark and ominous against the fading daylight. The wind had picked up, carrying with it the scent of impending rain and the distant rumble of thunder.

I blinked again, irritation flaring. “Oh, my bad, I’ll be sure to consult the weather gods next time before running errands for your royal pain-in-the-assness.”

His jaw twitched. I knew it wasn’t amusement, but irritation. It made me smile. I lived for these tiny breaks in his composure, these glimpses beneath the impenetrable armor he wore like a second skin.

And then, just for a second, his gaze dipped.

Not much. But enough.

Enough for me to catch it.

His gaze dragged down—to my lips, my throat, the curves he had seen a dozen times before. My body responded immediately. How could it not? I’m a woman after all. Albeit, an inexperienced woman, but a fully grown,I want to have hot sex with the mountain manwoman. My nipples hardened beneath my bra, the fabric suddenly abrasive against my sensitive skin. My panties grew damp with an embarrassing quickness, my body preparing for an intimacy my mind knew wouldn’t come.

And it was all for him.

The big, brooding asshole standing there like a statue carved from solid rock. For the big hulking, wish he would rock my world, mountain man. For those hands that could probably span even my thick waist. For that mouth that never smiled but that I knew instinctively would know how to make a woman moan. Make me moan.

But just as quickly as the expression had appeared, it vanished. Locked away behind that impenetrable mask of indifference. As if he’d caught himself in some terrible transgression and immediately corrected course.

I hated him for it.

Hated him for making me want. Hated him for holding himself back. For maintaining that maddening control when I wanted nothing more than to see it shatter.

So, naturally, I pushed. Why? Because I have a teensy problem with pushing buttons I shouldn’t. Because something about Landry McAllister made me want to prod at his defenses until they cracked. Until I could glimpse the man beneath—the one I sometimes caught hints of in unguarded moments.

“You know, a thank you wouldn’t kill you,” I said, arching a brow, the challenge clear in my voice. “Or do McAllisters just grunt and glare at people all day?”

His jaw ticked harder, a tiny muscle jumping beneath the dark stubble that shadowed his face. I found myself wondering how that stubble would feel against my skin—my neck, my breasts, the sensitive insides of my thighs. The thought sent another rush of liquid heat pooling low in my body.

“I’d thank you if you hadn’t taken your sweet time getting here,” he said flatly, though there was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. Something raw and barely contained.

I scoffed, welcoming the surge of irritation that temporarily overshadowed my inappropriate thoughts. “Oh, my bad, Ishould’ve known you’d be tracking my travel time like a damn micromanager.”

I threw my truck into park, cut the engine, and took a deep breath before pushing the door open. Or that had been my plan.

The door stuck, metal grinding against metal in a familiar protest.

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