Page 4 of Teased By the Lumberjack

Color floods her cheeks. “Just tallying the carbon footprint of your vanity.”

I step closer, watching her throat bob. “Vanity, huh? Thought you academics called itfield research.”

She retreats until a pine trunk stops her, fingers digging into bark. “Yourresearchinvolves bulldozers and?—“

“Backhoes?” I cage her in, bracing a hand above her head. Her lips part like she’s suddenly forgotten how to exhale. “Or were you picturing something… messier?”

God, I’d love to just press her against that tree, bury my face in her neck, and inhale her dizzying scent.

To my surprise, she lays a hand on my chest, and I nearly hiss, the heat of her fingers searing into my skin. My heart feelslike it’s going to jump across to her. She licks her lips and I fight a groan. But just as I’m about to cover her hand with mine, she pushes me back and darts away with a playful smile.

She’s halfway down the slope, braid swinging like a battle flag, by the time I get my bearings. I laugh, the ghost of her touch lingering on my skin as I follow her like the puppy Rourke says I am.

The old logging road’s overgrown, choked with blackberry vines. Teagan’s trying to hack through with a collapsible hiking pole, sweat plastering her tee to the dip of her spine. I lean against a spruce, arms crossed. “Need a hand?”

“Need you to combust spontaneously,” she grunts, wrestling with a thorny tendril.

“See, this is why we need the camp.” I unsheathe my hunting knife, slicing through the thicket with three clean strokes. “Teach city kids real survival skills. Not just how to cry over dandelions.”

She stares at the cleared path, then back at my big knife. “Compensating for something?”

I twirl the blade and glance down at my crotch. “You’re welcome to call my bluff, right here, right now.”

She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch. Maybe I’ll get that playful smile back again sometime soon.

The forest opens up to a sunlit clearing where birch trees stand sentinel around a collapsed cabin. Teagan freezes, camera halfway to her face. “This… this was your ‘no old-growth touched’ site?”

“1920s logging outpost.” I kick a rusted gearshift poking through ferns. “Foundations are still solid. Thought we’d rebuild here.”

She crouches, brushing moss off a carved beam. “You’d replicate the original structure?”

“Preserve it.” The reverence in her voice throws me. “Use traditional tools. Teach ’em how these woods built us.”

Her gaze flicks to mine. “Tradition nearly killed these woods once.”

“And ignorance will finish the job.” I yank a beetle-eaten plank from the rubble. “You think Starbucks cups are the real threat? Kids these days can’t tell pine from poison ivy. Don’t know how tolistento the land.”

The wind shifts, carrying her stunned silence, a strand of hair catching on her lip. I resist the urge to smooth it away. Barely.

“There’s a right way to log,” I murmur. “A rhythm. You don’t take more than the forest gives.”

Her fingers trace the growth rings on a splintered post. “And your camp?”

“Shows that balance.” The words taste foreign—defensive. Since when do I explain myself?

Thunder growls in the distance. Teagan stiffens, scanning the darkening sky.

“Storm’s coming,” I say.

“No.” She whirls, shoving her phone into her pocket. “I checked the radar this morning?—“

Lightning splits the clouds, the first fat raindrop splattering her nose.

“Come on,” I bark, grabbing her elbow.

She shakes free. “My tent’s near the cedar grove?—”

“Half a mile? You’ll drown first!”

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