Page 13 of Teased By the Lumberjack

"It could." The admission feels momentous. "But what about your lumberjack friends? Will they support this eco-friendly version?"

He snorts. "Those old bastards? They'll grumble about 'tree-hugger nonsense,' but they'll adapt. Most of them are like me—they love the woods, just show it differently."

My phone chirps from somewhere in the tent. I disentangle myself to find it buried beneath discarded clothes.

"Finally got signal," I mutter, checking the screen. Three missed calls from my dissertation advisor, Dr. Whittaker. “Crap."

"Problem?"

"My advisor. Probably wondering why I missed our check-in." I hesitate, then add, "He's kind of a big deal in forest ecology. Published that paper on climate adaptation in northern coniferous forests last year."

Connor's expression shifts subtly. "Sounds impressive."

"He's brilliant," I say, scrolling through messages. "Pioneered methodologies I'm using for my research. Got me this permit to study here when no one else could secure access."

"Quite the champion you've got there." Connor's tone is carefully neutral.

I glance up, suddenly understanding the tension in his shoulders. "Are you... jealous?"

"Of some middle-aged professor with leather elbow patches? Please." He sniffs, reaching for his shirt.

"He's thirty-six," I correct automatically. "And he wears Patagonia, not tweed."

Connor's jaw tightens. "Riveting."

I bite back a smile. "He's also married…to a man…with twins."

Connor pauses mid-button. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh." I crawl over, taking his shirt from his hands. "Besides, I prefer my men with calluses, not keyboard imprints."

His expression softens, arms wrapping around me. "That right?"

"Mmm-hmm." I press a kiss to his neck. "Men who know how to use their hands."

His low growl vibrates against me. "Careful, Smokey. Storm's passed. No excuse to stay in this tent all day."

"Maybe I don't need an excuse."

His eyes darken with renewed hunger, but he gently sets me back. "Much as I'd love to test that theory, we should get out of here. Storm might've brought down trees across the trail."

Reality intrudes like a cold draft. The world beyond our tent still exists—my research, his permits, all the practical obstacles to our fledgling collaboration.

"You're right," I sigh, reaching for my clothes. They're still damp, clinging uncomfortably as I pull them on.

We pack in companionable silence, the tent coming down much faster than it went up. The forest smells cleansed, petrichor rising from sun-warmed soil as we shoulder our bags.

Connor takes my hand as we start down the path toward my campsite. "You know this doesn't end here, right?"

"What doesn't?"

He stops, turning me to face him. "Us. This. What we're building."

The vulnerability in his eyes catches me off-guard. This man—this impossibly strong, skilled, stubborn man—is afraid I'll dismiss what happened between us. He really is a softie.

"I know." I squeeze his hand. "We've got plans to make. Permits to amend. A dissertation to design."

"That all?" His eyes search mine.

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