Hottie Lumberjack: A Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy Read online

  Hottie Lumberjack

  A Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy

  Tawna Fenske

  Contents

  About Hottie Lumberjack

  Also in the Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy Series

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  22. Your exclusive sneak peek at STIFF SUIT

  Don’t Miss Out!

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Tawna Fenske

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  * * *

  Text copyright © 2019 Tawna Fenske

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  www.tawnafenske.com

  * * *

  Cover design by Craig Zagurski

  About Hottie Lumberjack

  When Mark Bracelyn lumbers into Chelsea Singer’s cupcake shop with an axe, she’s poised to hit the panic button. But he fixes her door, praises her buttercream, and sends her skittish heart pounding like a hammer on a hollow log, so he can’t be all that scary. Chelsea’s sure there’s a gooey marshmallow center under Mark’s tough outer shell, though admittedly she’s been wrong before.

  Mark may look like a grungy lumberjack, but he’s also the wealthy part-owner of Ponderosa Luxury Ranch Resort. The lone Bracelyn heir to avoid a childhood of fancy boarding schools, he stays hidden behind the scruffy beard and battered truck. But something else separates Mark from his siblings, and keeping his guard up means keeping his secret—and his family.

  When someone threatens Chelsea and her daughter, Mark becomes their personal protector. When he’s not watching her back, he’s watching the rest of Chelsea’s body and warning himself not to touch. With danger mounting, they bond over phallic cupcakes and bizarre bunny behavior, while Mark battles his surging attraction. Can a sweet-toothed mountain man and a cautious single mom escape their histories, or will their hearts land on the chopping block?

  Also in the Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy Series

  Studmuffin Santa

  Chef Sugarlips

  Sergeant Sexypants

  Hottie Lumberjack

  Stiff Suit (coming June 14)

  To Cedar and Violet,

  For being my daily reminder that

  family requires no shared DNA.

  Chapter 1

  CHELSEA

  “Here you go, Mrs. Sampson.” I slide the pink bakery box across the counter with a smile. “One dozen Guinness chocolate cupcakes with chai spice frosting, and one dozen strawberry with vanilla fondant.”

  My retired math teacher pulls the box to her chest like she thinks someone will snatch it. “Did you put the penises on top like I asked?”

  Her volume is a good indication she forgot her hearing aid, and the chime of my front door is a good indication of how my week’s going. I order myself to stay focused on the customer in front of me, but from the corner of my eye I see the new arrival flinch in surprise.

  “I’ll be with you in just a—oh.”

  Holy shit.

  The guy in the doorway of my bakery doesn’t look like someone shopping for a dozen vanilla bean cupcakes. He looks like a lumberjack who lost his way to the forest. The scruffy beard, the plaid flannel, and ohmygod is that an axe?

  I swallow hard and glance at Mrs. Sampson, reminding myself not to alarm her. If we’re going to die at the hands of an axe murderer, I’d like her to go out knowing she got what she wanted in that bakery box. “The cupcakes are made to order, just like always,” I assure her. “I even slipped in a couple complimentary macarons because I know Mr. Sampson loves them.”

  She frowns but doesn’t turn around to notice the hulking figure behind her. “But the penises,” she says. “They’re for a bachelorette party for my grand-niece and—”

  “You’ve got your penises.” I wince at the sharpness of my words, wishing desperately we could stop saying that word in front of a guy who presumably has one. I’m trying not to look. “And I’ve got your order for next week’s Welfare Society luncheon. Can I get you anything else, Mrs. Sampson?”

  “No, dear,” she says, finally convinced that I successfully piped one dozen flesh-colored phalluses onto her pastries. “You’re a doll, Chelsea. I hope you find a man soon.”

  As if that weren’t embarrassing enough, she reaches across the counter and pats my cheek. Then she turns and brushes past the man who’s looking more than a little regretful about walking in here.

  I get a better look at him this time, and nope, I didn’t imagine the axe. Or the fact that he has to be at least six-five, which means he has to duck to get under the doorframe as he holds it open for Mrs. Sampson.

  “Ma’am.” His voice is gruff, but his eyes are kind. “You need help getting that into your car?”

  “Thank you, Mark,” she says. “I’ve got it. You tell that sister of yours hello.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sister? Mark?

  I study the guy more closely but see zero resemblance to five-foot-nothing Bree Bracelyn, the marketing VP for Ponderosa Ranch Luxury Resort. But this has to be the brother she’s talked about for months, right?

  The door swings shut and Paul Bunyan—er, Mark—turns to face me. He scrubs a hand over his beard as he ambles toward the counter. “I need cupcakes.”

  I glance at the axe in his hand and nod. “Uh, you’re in the right place for that.”

  Folding my hands on the counter, I meet his eyes. They’re a warm brown like my favorite Guittard chocolate, and I forget for a moment that he could crush my skull with his hands if he wanted to. He doesn’t appear to want to, but I don’t have a history of being a great judge of men.

  I push aside dark thoughts about my daughter’s sperm donor and the half-dozen other men in my past who’ve turned out to be real doozies and focus on the more immediate threat. Or is there a threat? Hottie Lumberjack doesn’t look terribly menacing. There’s an odd sort of teddy bear quality to the guy, if teddy bears had massive biceps and broad shoulders and sharp pieces of weaponry in their paws.

  He catches me staring and sets the axe down beside my display case, leaning it against his thigh. That’s huge, too. Everything about this guy is enormous, so why do I feel more turned on than terrified?

  The guy clears his throat. “I’m supposed to order two dozen cupcakes for a bunch of tour operators from—”

  “I’m sorry, why do you have the axe?”

  He cocks his head, genuinely perplexed. “For chopping wood.”

  For fuck’s sake. “I mean why did you bring it into a cupcake shop?”

  I’m no longer worried he’s here to lop my head off, but still.

  He stares at me for a few beats, not answering, not blinking, not even smiling. Not that I could tell, what with the thick beard masking any sort of express
ion. But I can see his lips, which are full and soft and—

  “Sharp.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “The axe,” he says. “Had to get it sharpened.”

  “So you brought it to a cupcake shop?”

  The corners of his mouth twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “No, I brought it to the shop down the street. Didn’t want to leave it in the truck because the doors don’t lock. Safety hazard.”

  “Oh.” That actually makes sense.

  Sort of. If this is really Bree Bracelyn’s brother, he’s a freakin’ gazillionaire. Not that any of the siblings in that family act like it, but it’s common knowledge the Bracelyn kids inherited a lot more than their dad’s ranch when he died.

  Suffice it to say, Hottie Lumberjack could afford a truck that locks.

  “Chelsea Singer,” I tell him, wiping a hand on my pink and green striped apron before offering it to him. “I own Dew Drop Cupcakes.” As an afterthought, I add, “And I’m not an axe murderer.”

  His mouth definitely twitches this time. “Mark Bracelyn. Ponderosa Resort. Also not an axe murderer.”

  “Good. That’s good.” And interesting. He didn’t volunteer his job title, but I know it’s something like Vice President of Grounds Management, which Bree told me he hates. He might be part-owner of a luxury resort for rich people, but he’d rather be regarded as the handyman. That’s what Bree says, anyway.

  And don’t think I haven’t noticed Bree filling my head with Mark-related tidbits.

  Mark built me a new woodshed this weekend.

  Mark has a major sweet tooth.

  Mark rescued a family of orphaned bunnies yesterday.

  I’m not sure whether she wants me to date him or just think twice about macing him if we meet in a dark alley, but it’s odd this is the first time we’re meeting.

  “So Mark,” I say, leaning against the counter. “What can I get for you?”

  “Cupcakes.” He frowns. “Two dozen.”

  “Right, but any particular flavor? Strawberry, peanut butter, kiwi, red velvet, double-fudge—” I stop when I see the dazed look in his eyes and nudge a laminated menu across the counter at him. “We have more than fifty cake flavors and three dozen frosting varieties, plus fondant and icing. There’s an infinite variety of combinations.”

  Those brown eyes take on the ultimate “kid in a candy shop” glow, so I give him a private moment while I turn and wash my hands at the sink. His eyes become saucers as I turn back and reach into the display case to pull out a tray of mini cupcakes. I wouldn’t do this for every customer, but Ponderosa Resort is one of my biggest clients.

  “This is one of our seasonal favorites right now,” I explain as I pluck a soft baby cupcake off the tray. “It’s Guinness chocolate, and it’s great with the Irish cream frosting. Would you like to try it?”

  “Yes.” His throat moves as he swallows. “Yes, please.”

  The gruff eagerness in his voice makes my girl parts clench, which is ridiculous. And a sign of how long it’s been since I had sex, which….um, yeah. Let’s just say dating’s not easy for single moms.

  I whip out a pastry bag and do a quick swirl of frosting on top of the cupcake. “Here you go.”

  Our fingers touch as I hand it across the counter, and I suppress an involuntary shiver. The good kind of shiver, like the one I do every time I bite into a perfect snickerdoodle. Good Lord, this guy has massive hands. He makes my mini cupcake look like a chocolate chip. “See what you think of that.”

  I have to look away from the expression of rapture on his face. There’s something raw and intimate about it, and my belly’s doing silly somersaults under my apron. I survey my tray, trying to come up with another good flavor combo.

  “Let’s see, this is one of Bree’s favorites.” I steal a look at his face, but if he’s surprised I connected the dots to his sister, he doesn’t show it. He’s too fixated on his cupcake, savoring every little mini-bite like it’s an act of worship.

  This shouldn’t be getting me hot, right?

  I clear my throat and swirl some lime zest frosting onto a lemon cupcake. “Bree likes the citrus combo,” I tell him. “Is it a family thing?”

  Something odd flashes in his eyes, but he takes the mini cupcake and nods. “Thank you.”

  He eats this one more gingerly, still savoring every crumb. I glance down at the sample tray and try to think of what other flavors to offer. What would a guy like Mark Bracelyn enjoy? I don’t make manly-man confections like sawdust cupcakes with drizzles of pine sap or mini-cakes infused with hints of leather and charcoal briquette. But maybe something on the other end of the spectrum.

  “These tend to be too sweet for some people, but—”

  “Yes.” He nods. “Yes, please, I’d like to try it.”

  I smile and pluck a gooey-looking confection off the edge of the tray. “You’re in luck, I had some left over from a kids’ birthday party order. This is my coconut caramel chocolate delight cupcake. It’s like those Girl Scout cookies—Samoas?—but in cupcake form.”

  The sheer joy in this man’s eyes is enough to make my hand shake as I place it in the center of his massive palm. He lifts it to his mouth, and I swear on my KitchenAid mixer, I have a mini-orgasm. If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, the way into my pants is through a man’s sweet tooth.

  What? No, I didn’t just think that.

  Holy shit, Chelsea, get it together.

  I smooth out my apron as Mr. Tall, Gruff, and Silent polishes off his cupcake. I consider offering him more—cupcakes, not sexual favors—but what’s that expression about free milk and cow buying and—

  Great, now I’m thinking about Mark Bracelyn’s hands on a pair of udders, which sooooo shouldn’t be hot, but it is.

  Stop it.

  I clear my throat. “So what’ll it be?” I ask. “You didn’t mention when you need the order, but I have several of these in stock. Most will take a couple days, though.”

  Mark wipes his beard with a sleeve, and I realize I should have offered a napkin. He doesn’t seem to need one, though, and his beard is remarkably crumb-free. What’s it like to kiss a guy with facial hair? I’ve only experienced five-o-clock shadow, the sort of sandpaper scruff that leaves your cheeks raw and red. But Mark’s beard looks soft, with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg.

  Stop thinking of this man as edible.

  “I’ll take four dozen, please,” he says.

  I bite my lip, not positive I’ve got that much stock. “I thought Bree only needed two dozen.”

  “She does,” he says. “The extras are for me. A dozen of whatever you’ve got in stock now, and the rest can wait ‘til Friday.”

  I smile and jot the order on a notepad. “Got it. You want anything specific, or a mixed batch?”

  He doesn’t smile, but there’s a flicker of interest in his eyes. “Surprise me.”

  Oh, baby.

  “How about any pupcakes?” I offer.

  Mark frowns. “Pupcakes?”

  “Cupcakes for dogs,” I say. For some reason I just assumed he has a dog. He looks like the sort of guy who’d have a Rottweiler or maybe a blue ox named Babe. “Bree buys them all the time for Virginia Woof.”

  “I should get a dog.” He says this with an earnestness that makes my heart go gooey.

  “You totally should.” Good Lord, why am I advising this man on his life choices? “The Humane Society has tons of great ones. My daughter and I volunteer there every Saturday.”

  This is where most guys check out. Or check my ring finger. Or ask some not-so-subtle question about the baby-daddy, even though everyone pretends not to care. Plenty of folks have heard rumors.

  But Mark doesn’t blink. Just looks me in the eye, calm and steady. “Good idea.”

  “Which? Volunteering at the Humane Society, or you getting a dog.”

  “Yes.”

  I wait for more, but there doesn’t seem to be any. His attention shifts to something over my shoulder, and he
points one enormous finger. “How long’s that been like that?”

  I look where he’s pointing and see the banged-up handle on the side door leading to the alley. I left it open a few inches to let the spring breeze waft through, and it’s obvious even from here that someone messed with the doorknob.

  “A couple days.” I turn back to face him. “I came in the other morning and found it like that. Probably kids messing around. I haven’t had time to call the repair guy.”

  Mark frowns. “May I?”

  I’m not sure what he’s asking, but I nod like an idiot. “Sure.”

  He lumbers around the counter, leaving his axe behind. After a few seconds of fiddling with the lock and muttering, he marches back around the counter. “Wait here.”

  “I—”

  The front door swings shut behind him before I can point out that I’ve got no place to go, owning the shop and everything. He’s not gone more than a minute, and when he strides back through the door, he’s carrying a battered red toolbox.

  He doesn’t ask this time. Just rounds the corner and goes to the door again. There’s some hammering and rattling, a few curse words that make me glad it’s a slow weekday and there are no other customers around. I busy myself filling a bakery box with cupcakes, slipping in two extras and one of my cupcake-shaped business cards with a few words scrawled on the back.

  Then I wander toward the door, watching his shoulders bunch as he works. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, revealing forearms thick and ropey with muscle. The man is huge, even kneeling on my floor.