Damn, she’s cute.
I give her ring finger a quick glance: It’s bare.
Things are starting to look up.
Maybe she’d be down to hang out, and byhang out, I mean have casual sex. I have time to kill, considering I’m not doing the whole retreat thing and have no activities planned.
As we both stand, she clears her throat, tucking the mat beneath her armpit, then brushes an invisible speck of dirt from the front of her pink jacket. She glances at me, her lips quirking like she knows I’ve been staring at her boobs, trying to figure out if she’s flat chested or if the sports bra is holding them down.
Not that it matters. I’m an equal opportunity boob guy. Small tits, big tits—I love them all.
Her eyes narrow, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “Are you going to say something, or are you going to keep standing there, working out the square footage of what’s inside my jacket?”
I blink, caught off guard. Laugh. “Sorry, my brain is running on fumes.” Wasn’t trying to be rude.
She arches a brow.
“I’m Harris—and I would shake your hand, but I got sticky fingers.” I hold the door open so she can slip inside, then follow her, intending to buy her whatever she wants.
“Harris,” she repeats, mulling the name over. “I can’t say I’ve seen you around before. Are you in town for work or pleasure? Wait.” She snaps her fingers. “Are you part of the group of men who took over half the rooms at the lodge?”
As if I would admit to being in town for a fuckingretreat.
“I am here for work.”Forcibly, against my will,ha ha.Can’t deny it.
“You are?” Her brows shoot up farther into her hairline. “Oh my gosh. Are you a lumberjack?”
Am I a lumberjack? What the fuck is she talking about?
“’Cause my friend Annabelle is practically pulling her hair out waiting for y’all to get here,” she goes on. “She wasn’t sure you were coming.”
I absolutely have no fucking clue what she’s talking about, but she’s so damn adorable I let her keep talking. Crossing my arms, I lean against a table next to the windows, playing along for the sheer entertainment value.
A lumberjack? Can’t say I’ve ever been accused of being one of those, but it sounds fun, and it’s been a mind-numbing twenty-four hours.
“Lumberjack?” I say. “What gave it away?”
This oughta be good.
She grins, enjoying this as much as I am. “Oh, you know. The broad shoulders, the mussed-up hair, the cuts and bruises on your hands. You give off ‘I wrestle bears for fun’ energy. It’s so very lumberjacky.”
I mull this over. “Interesting. I didn’t realize I was giving off ‘rugged outdoorsman.’ Must be the coffee stains.”
“Exactly,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “No self-respecting lumberjack has a clean shirt. It’s part of the aesthetic.”
“Well,” I say, leaning closer to her. “If Iwerea lumberjack, I’d say your friend Annabelle needs to work on her communication skills. I can’t magically appear. She would have to give me an address.”
And an axe.
She laughs, the sound light and musical, and it draws a grin out of me. “You’re saying it’s Annabelle’s fault the lumberjack company is short staffed and only sent three of you?”
Onlythree of us? Dang. “How many had she ordered?”
“Eight!”
Well shit. Sounds like Annabelle better get her money back.
“All I’m saying is—I never got a call.” It’s the honest-to-God truth. “How does she expect us to roll logs, chop wood, and look rugged if she doesn’t give us the proper tools—or, you know, theaddress? It’s poor planning.”
