Page 6 of Teased By the Lumberjack

He turns to face away from me and I wiggle awkwardly out of my pants, hyper-aware of his presence just inches away. The flannel is soft against my skin as I pull it on, cinching the drawstring tight at my waist.

When I turn back, Connor has pulled on a black thermal that stretches across his chest like it’s hanging on for dear life.

“Better?” he asks, voice rougher than before.

I nod, unable to form words. He’s watching me—I can feel it—his eyes tracing the way I nervously comb through my hair with my fingers, the braid long undone.

The rain drums steadier now, less frantic. Without the immediate panic of the storm, the reality of our situation settles in—I’m trapped in a tent with a man who represents everything I’m fighting against. A man who makes my pulse quicken in ways that have nothing to do with righteous anger.

He watches my movements, something unreadable passing across his face. "You mentioned mushroom networks earlier."

Again, his interest catches me off guard. "Yes. They're fascinating—the way they communicate, share resources. Trees use them to send warnings about threats."

"Like a forest internet?" Connor shifts, his knee accidentally brushing mine. Neither of us moves away.

"Something like that." I find myself warming to the subject. "They're the hidden infrastructure of the ecosystem. When we disrupt them, we cut communication lines between species that have co-evolved for millennia."

"And my camp would do that?"

"Any development would," I say, but my usual fire feels dampened. "Even just foot traffic compacts soil, which?—"

"Makes it harder for the little guys to do their thing," he finishes, nodding. "My grandfather taught me about that, actually. Said you could tell if a forest was sick by looking at what was growing on the ground."

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. "Your grandfather taught you about forest ecology?"

Connor's expression softens with memory. "Not formally. But he knew things. Could tell when a forest needed thinning, when it needed to be left alone to heal. Said logging was a conversation with the land, not a robbery."

Something shifts in my chest, a subtle realignment. "That's... actually beautiful."

"He was a wise old bastard." Connor's smile is tinged with melancholy. "This camp—it's as much for him as it is for me. A way to preserve what he taught me before it's forgotten."

"Is that why you retired? To build this camp?"

A shadow passes over his face. "Partly. Fucked up my back two years ago. Doctor said if I kept swinging an axe, I'd end up in a wheelchair by fifty."

"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it.

He shrugs. "Had a good run. Twenty-five years in the business, just like my dad and his dad before him."

"And now you're the last," I realize aloud.

"Unless I can show people there's still value in it." His eyes lock with mine, intense and earnest. "Not just cutting trees, but understanding them. Working with them. The relationship between man and forest."

I've never thought of logging that way—as a relationship rather than an exploitation. It's unsettling how compelling his vision sounds when he describes it like that.

“So,” I blurt, desperate to shatter the tension. “Your lumberjack reenactment camp. It’s just… axe-throwing and beard contests?”

His lips twitch. “You forgot the log-rolling. And the chainsaw artistry.”

I smirk. “Ah yes, defacing trees for profit. How noble.”

“Preserving history,” he corrects, stretching his legs. “Your people write papers. Mine teach skills.”

“Mypeoplekeep ecosystems from collapsing.”

“And mine kept towns from starving.” He leans closer, his knee brushing my thigh. “Funny how survival works.”

Thunder growls overhead, and I huddle deeper into his sweatshirt. “Whythesewoods?”

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