Page 53 of Rough and Rugged

I’m an environmental attorney. My job involves protecting the very forests where Ellis’s lumber might come from. The irony was always a quandary for me.

Another thing about Ellis: he always challenges me. Like telling me heknowsI can’t roll on a log or toss an ax. He doesn’t know anything about me, and nothing spurs me on more than being told I can’t do something.

So, I’m not at all surprised when I balance on a downed tree trunk in a lake, wearing cloth gym shoes, khaki shorts, and a blouse made more for an office than the woods. As I face off with another woman, I watch her feet, moving mine in time with hers, thankful for years of dance lessons. I hold my own, forcing the buoyant trunk one direction and then the other. My competition has clearly done this dance a time or two, and my legs are aching, but quitting is not in my repertoire. With fancy footwork I predict a four count as she shuffles one-two-three, but then she doubles back on four.

I slip, my backside landing hard on top of the log before I awkwardly rolling into the cold morning lake.

I bob upward with a sharp screech. My shoes, shirt, and shorts are ruined for the day, and I hadn’t thought to bring a change of clothes. Hadn’t considered I’d be joining in any logger games until Ellis challenged me.

Fucking Ellis.

A sudden splash behind me has me glancing to my left where a large head bursts above the surface followed by broad shoulders. His hair slicks back, turning from streaks of silver and sand to jet black. With one broad stroke of those powerful arms, he’s upon me.

“Are you alright?”

“Dammit, Ellis.” I blame him for my entry in this contest, and my loss.

He swims closer, tugging me toward him and out of the way as the person manning the event extends a pole to my opponent, who is still standing fresh and dry, on the saturated trunk. With the extended pole, the guide draws her and the log toward the dock.

“Up.” I point to the bobbing trunk.

“What?” Ellis stares at me, those deep brown eyes wide.

“Get on that fucking log, Ellis.”

He blinks once. Blinks again. Then the corner of his mouth crooks upward, and I catch a glimpse of a dimple hidden beneath his thick beard. The one that always did me in as a girl and still makes me woozy as a woman.

“When did you get such a dirty mouth, Ginger?” He chuckles, the sound deep and rich.

Since a week ago, when—I cut off the thought. I will not think ofhimtoday. Today, Grant wanted me to have fun. To let loose. To bury my broken heart beneath beer, brats, logs, and a lumberjack. That last one wasn’t really on my list, but Grant was obnoxious like that. Sometimes, I swear he forgets I am his sister and not one of the guys.

“Up.” I point again in the direction of the log before swimming toward it.

“That isn’t how this works,” Ellis calls after me but I ignore him, trying to pull myself up on a rolling cylinder.

Murmurs begin from the crowd gathered near the lake.

“Up. Up. Up.” A cheer erupts for the crazy lady attempting to climb up a water-logged trunk.

Suddenly, two hands come to my hips and lift me like I’m a delicate flower. Unladylike, I spread my legs and straddle the log before glaring at Ellis treading water.

“You really want to do this?” His bushy brows crease.

“Get up here.” I point toward the opposite end of the thick trunk.

“This is unprecedented,” the person manning the contest states, then shrugs and reaches for his beer on the railing of the dock.

Ellis hops up on the log with the grace one wouldnotexpect from someone with such bulging arms and solid thighs. The trunk rolls slightly, forcing me to lay flat a second, circling my arms around the thick mass, holding on tight to avoid falling off again.

Soaked to the bone, I cautiously stand as Ellis holds out both his arms to balance on the log like he’s an expert gymnast. When I’m fully upright, his eyes widen. His mouth gapes. Glancing down at myself, I get a good look at my see-through shirt, a frilly number more fit for a business meeting than a lumberjack festival. My khaki shorts are ruined as well, plastered to my hips and backside like a second skin. My shoes are trashed, but suddenly, I don’t care a wink.

I’m more flabbergasted by Ellis’s appearance. His T-shirt is seer-suckered to his broad form, leaving little to the imagination across his chest, abs, and waist. And I’ve had an overactive imagination about him for most of my thirty-six years. His shorts are also suctioned to him and outline his—

Whoa!I quickly glance away and the log beneath my feet rolls. My arms flail and Ellis takes the movement as a signal that we’ve begun. His feet move casually, making the slippery trunk twist and turn, and I work double-time to keep up with his large flippers. Eventually, I find a rhythm, matching his, mirroring him.

He goes left. I go right.

He rolls right. I rock left.

---