Page 16 of Teased By the Lumberjack

Water cascades over us as she returns the favor, her touch both thorough and achingly sinful.

When the water finally begins to cool, we reluctantly shut it off. I wrap her in one of the thin white towels, using another to gently dry her hair.

"What happens tomorrow?" she asks, voice quiet beneath the towel.

I pause, considering. "We head back to Timber Run. Start plotting out the camp locations. Maybe drive into Missoula to talk to your dissertation committee."

"And us?" Her eyes find mine, a vulnerability there that catches at my heart.

"We figure it out one day at a time," I say honestly. "Build something that works for both of us." I search for the right words. "Adaptive management."

A slow smile spreads across her face. "Did you just use an ecological term?"

"Might have picked up a thing or two from a passionate grad student I know." I pull her against my chest, damp towels and all. "Turns out she's pretty persuasive when she gets fired up."

"Hmm." She winds her arms around my neck. "And here I thought it was my forest nymph charm."

"That too," I concede, kissing her. "Definitely, that too."

EPILOGUE - TEAGAN

THREE MONTHS LATER

The bronze ceremonial shovel in my hand is shimmering in the sun, its handle wrapped in forest-green ribbon. Three months of permits, pine resin, and panty-melting distractions with a certain reformed lumberjack have led here—groundbreaking day at the Timber Run Eco-Historical Lumberjack Camp.

Rourke whoops as he unfurls a banner reading *“Sustainability Meets Sawdust!”* across the freshly built cedar welcome arch. Brady, the tree climber, adjusts his safety goggles, double-checking the solar panel array we installed last week. Even Graham’s here, axe-thrower and wood splitting master, cursing the compost toilet prototype, grumbling about “kids these days and their damn Wi-Fi trees.”

My chest swells.Our chaos. Our dream.

“You’re doing that thing again.” Connor’s beard tickles my ear as he slips an arm around my waist. His flannel smells like sawdust and the peppermint soap I bought him—a concession after I threatened to burn his “vintage” (read: moldy) hunting gear.

“What thing?” I lean into him, humming when his thumb brushes the sensitive skin of my hips he rediscovered last night.

“The glowing.” He turns me to face him, blue eyes crinkling. “Makes me want to drag you into the tool shed.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “Don’t. Ewan’s already side-eyeing us.”

The Scotsman winks from across the clearing, raising a flask. “Get abothà!” That’s Gaelic for “room.”

Connor’s laugh rumbles through me. “Too late. He’s Team Teagan now.”

Before I can retort, a horn blares. A mint-green VW van skids into the lot, trailing dust and ABBA’s“Dancing Queen.”My sister, Opal, tumbles out, all neon overalls and bedhead, her British Architecture Review cap askew.

“Sorry I’m late!” She brandishes a Tupperware container. “Had to pick up vegan haggis!”

Ewan blanches. “You’ve doomed us all.”

I squeeze Connor’s bicep—my new stress-relief habit—as Opal bear-hugs Graham, then fist-bumps Rourke. She’s been video-calling weekly, demanding updates on the “lumberjack baby timeline.”

“You didn’t tell me she was coming,” I whisper.

Connor’s throat bobs. “Surprise?”

Something’s off. He’s been jittery all morning—tripping over stump removals, burning the coffee—but now sweat beads his temples despite the crisp mountain air.

I poke his chest. “What’s wrong?”

“Stage fright,” he lies, kissing my knuckles. “Go be brilliant, Smokey.”

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