Page 7 of Property of the Woodsman

“Sure, I’ll take a look at it. Lord knows I can’t afford anything new right now, and most of my wardrobe is black on black. This is a garden event, right?”

“That’s what the invitation says, though I’m not sure how they’re going to pull that off if the weather stays cold like this.”

I run through the dresses I have hanging in my closet as she talks. “Oh, I do have this one dress. It’s like a short red thing. Not sure people wear red to weddings, though.”

“If you’re talking about that dress you bought last Valentine’s Day, then yes. You should wear that dress. It’s the perfect revenge outfit. You bought it hoping it would spice things up with Reed, and he couldn’t manage more than a passing ‘looks good,’ remember? You show up in that same dress while some other man can’t keep his hands off you,” she groans emphatically, “that’d be perfect. He freaking deserves it.”

“Or is it weird?”

“No. It’s classy, but mildly slutty, and it sends the exact message you’re trying to send.”

Debating my choices, I stare out at the woods. Pine, birch, aspen, every leaf changing color, every coneflower standing taller and brighter with the shifting season.

Maybe this is the book I should be writing. The story of a newly divorced woman who buys a quirky little farmhouse in the woods and plays fake date with the super-hot previous owner. Truth be told, the reality of what’s happening seems like a book already.

I mean, I’ve been alive forty years, and I’ve never had a man kiss me the way Atlas just kissed me. Maybe it’s a sign… or maybe I’m having my richest delusion yet. Either way, I think I’m finally in the mood for writing.

Chapter Three

Atlas

I’ve been thinking about that kiss all damn night. How soft and full Jen’s lips are, the way her hips felt in my grip, the way her breasts rested against my chest. My cock presses against my zipper just thinking about it, and I know I’m in trouble.

Jesus Christ, I can’t do this to myself!

I need to get a grip. I don’t do this shit. She’s just a woman. I don’t spend my time pining for someone, jerk off to thoughts of her, wondering how the fuck she’s doing. It’s hard enough to keep my shit together without that pressure. The last thing I need is a fucking woman in my head complicating everything.

She is beautiful, though. That part’s hard to ignore. Even now, as I watch her from the front seat of my truck out on the side deck hanging clothes on the line, it’s hard not to picture what she’d feel like in my arms on a quiet Friday night, or what she’d sound like bent over the rail taking my cock like a good girl.

I scrub my hand down over my face and readjust my jeans before hopping out of the truck. For all intents and purposes, I’m a paid actor. This is a job. I’m sure plenty of actors enjoy kissing the actresses they’re in movies with. Hell, I’m sure plenty of them look forward to it. That’s natural, and I’m human. It’s normal for a man to want a beautiful woman. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.

She’s hanging the last of the clothes on the line, her dark brown hair blowing back in the breeze before I lose sight of her and climb up onto the porch, ringing the doorbell to my own damn house. The house my father built after my mother sketched it into existence. The house I grew and learned about life in. The house I was a teenager in before she was even born.

It’s a mind fuck, but the second she swings open the front door with a sweet smile, I forget about all that.

“I need a pet name for you,” I groan, stepping inside without invitation. “Something cute but not corny.”

“Pet names are all corny.” She closes the door behind me, the scent of blackberries and spice in the air.

“Not true.” I kick off my boots by the door. “Some are cute if they’re done right.”

“You think pet names are cute?” she laughs. “I don’t believe that.”

“I said they can be, when they’re done right.”

“And what does one sound like when it’s done right?” Her tone is sarcastic as I follow her round ass into the kitchen, my eyes watching it bounce.

“I like baby.”

“Get out of here! That’s the most basic of them all!”

“What? No, it’s not. It tells you and everyone else that you’re mine to take care of.”

“Yeah, but,” she shakes her head and leans forward to drop open the oven door and pull the steaming pie from the middle rack, “baby is overused, and it’s way too impersonal. We need something unique.”

“I could call you my sweet, little bandit.”

“What? Why is that personal?”