Page 4 of Her Christmas Lumberjack

Aurora nods, but there’s still something in her expression that I can’t read.

Guilt? Sadness?

But what has she got to feel guilty about? Hell, it’s not her fault my dad died. And writing an article about Christmas in Cherry Hollow isn’t exactly a crime.

I shake off my confusion and change the subject. “You probably already saw the barn.”

“Yes, but I’d love to see it again,” she says quickly. “If you don’t mind showing me.”

“Sure.”

Our boots crunch in the snow as we head toward the barn, and I sneak glances at Aurora, trying to wrap my head around why she looks so troubled. She’s biting her lip, her teeth nibbling the soft pink flesh in a way that makes me shudder from more than just the cold. This pretty little journalist is a mystery, and I’m drawn to her in a way I can’t explain. It’s not just those luscious curves driving me crazy—it’s deeper than that. I’ve always been a loner, never opening up to anybody outside my family, and even with them, I hold a lot back. My instinct is to push people away, keep my distance.

Yet somehow, with Aurora, all I want is to draw her nearer.

It doesn’t make any sense. She’s a stranger. A local journalist writing an article about Christmas—that’s it. But my body is reacting to her in ways I’ve never felt before: adrenaline pumping, blood rushing downward. I’m an old grump who’spushing fifty, and she’s a sweet young stranger who can’t be over twenty-five. I shouldn’t be feeling this way.

But fuck, try telling that to my pounding heart.

3

AURORA

I wasn’t expectingthis to be easy, but now that I’m here, it feels downright impossible. My stomach is in knots as I follow Nolan into the barn, trying to stop myself from staring at him. Lying is hard as it is, but lying to a gorgeous giant with intense blue eyes that seem to read all your thoughts?

Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into?

Nolan Thorne is the hottest man I’ve ever seen. He’s built like a mountain—hard as rock, with muscles that strain against his red flannel shirt. Tattoos poke out from beneath his sleeves and swirl up his neck, stopping at his thick black beard. Every inch of him is rugged and masculine, and the sheer size of him is enough to make my breath come fast.

But worst of all? Beneath his grumpy expression, he seems like a genuinely nice guy, just trying to keep his family business going after losing his dad. Maybe this would be easier if he were a jerk like Samuel. Instead, I feel like a horrible person.

I never should have told him I was a journalist. When he suggested it, I panicked and latched on. Now it’s too late to tell the truth, and if I did, Nolan would probably tell me to get the hell off his farm. And he’d be right.

Deep breaths, Aurora.

The barn is somehow even busier than before. Eartha Kitt has been replaced by Bing Crosby singing It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas, but the festive music only makes me feel worse.

“That’s my brother,” Nolan says from beside me, nodding toward a tall lumberjack in the corner. “He co-owns the farm.” His voice rises to a deep boom that makes me shiver. “Declan! Get over here.”

With a scowl, Nolan’s brother does as he’s told, keeping his arm wrapped tight around the pretty young woman beside him.

“Everything okay?” he asks as they approach.

“Everything would be a whole lot better if you and Margot stopped sneaking off into the backroom,” Nolan says, raising an eyebrow.

Declan grunts, pressing a protective kiss on Margot’s forehead. “Nothing wrong with getting into the Christmas spirit.”

Nolan rolls his eyes, then gestures to me. “This is Aurora. She’s writing an article about Christmas in Cherry Hollow.”

“Awesome!” Margot says, smiling at me. “I guess you’re going to include the farm?”

I nod, forcing a smile back. “Yep.”

“Nice to meet you,” Declan says, tearing his eyes away from Margot just long enough to nod at me.

“What paper are you writing for?” she asks eagerly. “It will be great to see the farm in print.”

My mouth goes dry, mind racing. Now that I’m being put on the spot, I can’t think of the name of a single local newspaper. And something tells me they won’t buy that I’m from the New York Times.

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