Page 5 of Teased By the Lumberjack

“I’ll be fine?—”

A deafening crack splits the air. I lunge for her, pulling her against me and covering her head as a dead branch crashes where she stood just seconds ago.

Her chest heaves against mine, heart galloping as she clings to me.

Then the skies open like a big, gray curtain.

“Let’s go!” I pull her toward the trail, rain pelting us. “And if you die, I’m turning your notes into kindling!”

“Shut up!” Her laugh rings out, wild and bright beneath the downpour.

CHAPTER 3

TEAGAN

“Move! Move!” Connor bellows over the deafening boom of thunder, practically shoving me through the clearing as rain lashes my face. We crash through the undergrowth, thunder shaking the earth like the gods are furious we’ve trespassed.

Connor’s hand stays clamped around my wrist as if I’m a runaway calf, his grip firm, but not bruising. My lungs burn, my soaked shirt clinging to my skin as we skid down a muddy slope toward the faint yellow-orange glow of my tent.

“In!” Connor barks, his broad chest pressing against my back as he yanks the zipper down and pulls back the nylon flap.

I duck inside, as he shoulders in behind me. The tent sags under the downpour, the air thick with the scent of wet fabric and the ozone crackle of the storm.

“Shit,” I gasp, scrambling to zip the entrance closed as wind threatens to tear the tent stakes from the ground.

Connor’s brawny frame takes up too much space, his shoulders brushing the walls. But he blocks most of the opening while I secure it, my hands shaking from adrenaline and cold.

“Easy, Smokey,” he rumbles, his taut muscle flexing in the dim light, water trickling down the scar on his ribs. The tent feels even smaller with all that bare skin on display.

I jerk my gaze away, cheeks flaming. “S-sorry. Crowded in here.”

“Understatement.” He chuckles and hands me my pack. “Got a towel?”

I rummage in my pack and thrust a microfiber camping towel at him, refusing to acknowledge how his low laugh curls in my stomach. He looks younger when he smiles, less like the enemy of all things ecological and more like a man I might’ve noticed at a coffee shop.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the sharp planes of his face as he scrubs rainwater from his beard.

But this man is a Greek god.

“You okay?” His voice softens as he nods at my trembling hands.

“Fine,” I lie and cross my arms. “Just… didn’t expect a monsoon.”

“S’what you get for trusting weather apps,” he says, but there’s no bite. He rummages through his own pack, producing a battered flask. “Whiskey?”

“No thanks. I prefer my brain cells intact.”

He shrugs, taking a swig. “Suit yourself. Helps with the chill.”

As if on cue, a violent shiver racks my body. His gaze sharpens. “You’re freezing.”

“I’mfine?—”

“Bullshit.” He tosses me a dry sweatshirt from his bag. “Put this on before you turn into a Popsicle.”

I hesitate, then slip it on, trying not to drown in the cedar-and-sweat scent clinging to the fabric. It drowns me anyway.

Something flashes in those ice-blue eyes as they sweep over me. “The pants, too,” he rumbles. He hands me a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. “I sleep in ‘em. Clean, I promise.”

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