Page 1 of Climb Me Maybe
CHAPTER1
IMOGEN
Behold the land of sexy mountain men…
I park in the lot near the main lobby at theTimber Run Eco-Historical Lumberjack Camp, and my composure takes a nosedive straight into a pool of inappropriate comments.Followed by aBeavis and Buttheadchuckle.
The place is crawling with ridiculously attractive men doing smoking hot things with axes, chainsaws, and enough flannel to single-handedly revive the grunge movement.
One guy’s in a sleeveless shirt that shows off biceps that could crush beer cans.Another—sweet baby Jesus—is hefting an enormous log over his shoulder like it’s a bag of cotton balls.
“Imogen…you're here for business,” I recite to a chipmunk staring at me from a stump.
Right.Business.The kind that involves keeping my hands strictly professional and my panties firmly in place while I provide massage services to stressed-out lumberjacks for a week.
Yikes.
The camp worked out a deal with the Serenity Springs Wellness Center, a resort and spa currently under construction in Deepwood Mountain, Montana, where I’ll be interviewing for Managing Massage Therapist.
That is…if I don’t let one of these lumbersnacks whisk me away forever to the top of a mountain.
I shake off the fantasy and head toward the lobby office.I’m attempting to look competent and self-assured instead of someone whose brain just short-circuited.Because a bearded giant across the way just split wood with the kind of talent that makes me wonder what else those hands are good at.
Professional.Boundaries.Ethics.
The mantra works for approximately thirty seconds until I walk past the axe-throwing demonstration area and witness what can only be described as a tactical flannel situation.Three different lumberjacks, three different styles of devastatingly handsome, all wielding sharp objects with the kind of casual competence that should probably come with a warning label.
I mean, holy mother of forearm porn.
I'm so busy noting the various ways Montana has cornered the market on gorgeous outdoorsmen that I nearly walk face-first into the camp office door.
The door swings open just as I reach for the handle, and I find myself colliding with a towering slab of solid muscle wrapped in a navy flannel shirt.
"Whoa—" Strong calloused hands shoot out to catch my shoulders, steadying me before I can embarrass myself further."Sorry about that.Are you okay?"
The voice rumbles through me before I see his face.I tilt my head back.Further.Further.Shit, is his hairline inorbit?
Striking midnight blue eyes blink down at me, his salt and pepper hair styled with the kind of careless perfection that says “I fell out of a tree and somehow this happened.”His square-jaw could be chiseled from stone, and I watch his throat bob as my gaze lingers on the ink peeking from his collar—traditional Japanese waves or something, ancient and beautiful against his lightly tanned skin.
My brain promptly forgets how to speak.
"I—yes.Sorry.I wasn't watching where I was—" I pat his rock-hard pec and he jolts like I tasered him.Then I gesture at the door, at him, at the general concept of spatial awareness that's abandoned me."You're very big—uh, tall."
Brilliant opening line, Imogen.Really showcasing your communication skills.
A flush creeps up his neck and his mouth quirks up on one side.
I figure he's probably in his forties, with the kind of mature handsomeness that suggests he's figured out exactly who he is and gotten comfortable with it.There's something quietly magnetic about the way he carries himself—controlled, refined, like every movement is deliberate.
Also, his hands are still on my shoulders, and the heat is doing illegal things to my core.
"I’m…" Seems I’mstillhaving trouble forming complete sentences."Yes.I’m okay.How about you?"
"I'm fine," he says, and there's something almost shy in the way he's looking at me.His gaze travels over me, but instead of judgment, like I often get with my pink hair, piercings, and tattoos, I see what looks like curiosity.
"I should—I need to get going," he says suddenly, dropping his hands and stepping back.But he doesn't actually move toward wherever he's supposed to be going.
"Right.Of course.Me too.I mean, I'm here for—business."I point at the door, trying to look like someone who definitely knows what she's doing and isn't completely flustered by a hunky lumberjack.
