Hottie Lumberjack: A Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy Read online

  I don’t realize how close I’ve crept until he turns his head and—

  “Um,” he says.

  He’s face-to-boob with me, and we’re frozen in the moment. I could step forward and feel the tickle of his beard against my breasts through the front of my T-shirt. He could lean in and whisper warm breath against my nipples, making them pucker through the lace of my bra.

  But neither of us does that.

  He’s first to lift his gaze, meeting my eyes through a haze that looks like the same thing buzzing through my brain. “You’re good.”

  “What?”

  “The door.” He gestures with a screwdriver but doesn’t break eye contact. “That should hold now. No need to call a repairman.”

  I drag my eyes from his and see he’s fixed my damn door. How about that?

  “Wow.” I step back at last, aware of the dizzy hum pulsing through my core. “That’s—wow. What do I owe you?”

  Mark stands and hoists his toolbox, wiping a hand on his jeans. “You gave me cupcake samples.”

  “Maybe a dollar’s worth of samples,” I point out. “A repairman would charge at least a hundred.”

  “You can give me a pupcake,” he says. “When I get my dog.”

  He gives me a small smile, but I don’t think he’s kidding. I do think he’s considering kissing me. I want him to, Jesus God, I want him to, and it’s the craziest thing ever.

  But he turns and lumbers back around the counter. Setting down the toolbox, he fishes into his pocket and comes up with a battered leather wallet. “For the four-dozen cupcakes,” he says, laying four hundred-dollar bills on the counter as my jaw falls open.

  How much does this man think I charge for butter and sugar and—

  “It was good meeting you.” He gathers his axe and toolbox and the pink bakery box, then lumbers toward the door before I can muster any words like “wait” or “your receipt” or “please bend me over the counter.”

  The door swings shut behind him, and seconds later, a truck engine growls to life. I realize my mouth is still hanging open, so I close it and watch a faded blue and white pickup rumble down the street.

  What the hell just happened?

  Chapter 2

  MARK

  My plan to avoid sibling contact until I’ve calmed the fuck down lasts roughly nineteen seconds after I get home from meeting the woman of my goddamn dreams.

  That’s Chelsea, in case it wasn’t obvious.

  And that’s Bree, my pain-in-the-ass sister, banging on the door of my cabin just as I’ve dropped into an oversized leather chair and popped open a can of grape soda.

  “What?” I ask, soda can gripped in one hand.

  I’ve cracked the door only a few inches, but my sister shoves her way inside like a curly-haired bulldog and marches right past me. Even in her high-heeled shoes, she barely comes up to the middle of my ribcage.

  “We have a meeting,” she announces, grabbing the soda can from my hand and taking a slug. She makes a face. “How can you drink this stuff? It’s pure sugar.”

  I snatch the can back. “What meeting?”

  She rolls her eyes. “The pre-meeting for tomorrow’s meeting of the entire resort ownership team. Remember? Jonathan is flying in?”

  Crap. She’s right; all four of us who live on-site—me, Bree, Sean, and James—plus our brother Jonathan, who’s been halfway around the globe doing God knows what with some humanitarian group, we’re set to have some sort of annual review. It’s the first time in ages that the core of Bracelyn sibs will be under one roof, and Bree’s been talking about it for weeks.

  An uneasiness settles in my belly as I think about sitting down with all those pedigreed half-sibs with their dark hair and eerie green eyes.

  “Who the fuck has pre-meetings?” I ask. “Isn’t one meeting enough?”

  More than enough, actually. I love my brothers and sister, but holy hell, what is it with them and meetings?

  Bree sighs, but she’s not really annoyed. She’s only here to quiz me about Chelsea anyway, but I might as well make her work for it.

  She leans against the wall and grabs my soda again. “Jonathan hasn’t been here since before we opened.” She takes another slug of soda and makes a face. “Hell, James is the only one who’s seen him recently, and that was just to sign all the legal paperwork saying we could run his share of the resort however we want.”

  I consider opening a can of soda just for her, but I’d rather not prolong this discussion. I’m not a fan of conversations about the awkward family dynamic. All of us—Bree, Sean, Jon, James, and God knows how many other Bracelyn progeny are out there running around—have different mothers, and most of us grew up in different states. I was raised right here in Oregon, the only kid to somehow avoid getting hauled off to some snobby boarding school.

  That’s not the only thing that separates me from the rest of the bastard Bracelyn clan, but I digress.

  “Come on, Mark,” she says. “You’re part of this family and a member of the leadership team. We need you.”

  Something knots up tight in my gut, and it’s not because I’m needed. That’s the part I like, the part that leaves me feeling like I have a place in this whole crazy plan to turn Dad’s ranch into a luxury resort.

  You’re part of this family.

  I grab the soda can and gulp until I don’t hear Bree’s words anymore. “I’ll be there in five.”

  “Great.” She grins and leans back against the wall. “So, how was she?”

  Gotta appreciate that my sister’s not even pretending there wasn’t an ulterior motive behind her cupcake errand. She’s been on me for months to meet the owner of the cupcake shop. Blame my sweet tooth for the fact that I caved.

  “She’s nice.”

  Nice.

  Bree’s not the only one who knows what a bullshit answer that is. Nice is for tepid water and saltine crackers. Not for stunning brunettes with fiery streaks in her hair and clear blue eyes and freckles like sprinkles of cocoa powder on her nose. God, those eyes. And that mouth. And—

  “Hello? Earth to Mark.” Bree frowns. “You did remember to order the cupcakes, right?”

  “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “She’ll have them ready for you to grab on Friday.”

  “Oh.” My sister frowns. “You’re not picking them up for me?”

  There. That’s my opening. My chance to see Chelsea again.

  But no, that’s a bad idea. Like a bull in a china shop—or a toddler in a cupcake shop—I’ll just make a mess of things. Besides, she’s got a kid. I know damn well how messed up it is for a kid to bounce between his dad and his mom’s “man friends” with no real certainty who’s staying or going and who the hell that makes you in the grand scheme of things.

  I might have issues, as Bree would say.

  “Come on,” I tell her now. “Let’s go to the pre-meeting.”

  She watches my face for a moment, then grabs back my soda can and polishes it off. When she sets the empty can on my counter, determination glints in her eyes. “We’re not done here.”

  I close my eyes and sigh, pretty sure she’s right.

  It’s nearly eight-thirty by the time I make it back to my cabin.

  It’s both a blessing and a curse having a brother who’s a Michelin-starred chef. A curse, because every meeting turns into a three-hour, six-course dinner party.

  A blessing because it’s fucking delicious.

  And because I love my family. I do, even though I don’t always show it. Even though I’m not sure I belong.

  I kick my boots off by the door and head for the fridge. I shouldn’t still be hungry, but it takes a lot of calories to fuel someone my size. Besides, I haven’t stopped thinking about those cupcakes all night.

  Fine. Fine, it’s Chelsea I haven’t stopped thinking about, but I’ll take the cupcakes if I can’t have her.

  You can have her. You caught the vibes coming off of her back there.

  It’s not a matter of interest. I’
m not stupid; I can tell when a woman’s into me. True, her interest has a sweet, warm quality, while mine might trend more toward nuclear energy. Either way, the chemistry’s there.

  But no. That’s a dangerous path to start down, the single mom thing. I could pick up the phone right now and call my own mom if I wanted a reminder of that.

  Mistress to a millionaire—okay, gazillionaire—my mom bore zero resemblance to Cort Bracelyn’s other wives. That’s probably why she never became one, content to turn down his marriage proposals while raising me mostly on her own.

  I’ve wondered sometimes if that’s what kept him hanging around. The fact that my mother left him wanting, that he stuck around waiting for her to say yes—is that what made me the only Bracelyn kid who got dear ol’ dad in his life on the regular?

  Or maybe it was proximity, the fact that he liked coming out to his vanity ranch in Oregon. Maybe that’s why he sometimes did normal dad stuff like showing up for Little League games and even the occasional dinner while my brothers and sister got fat checks and tiny scraps of time during their boarding school breaks.

  Shaking off the grim thoughts, I open the bakery box and pull out three cupcakes. One with pale yellow frosting that I fear might be lemon—not my favorite—but that turns out to be pineapple. That, and something chocolate, plus another with pink frosting and a fresh raspberry in the center. I slide them all onto a plate and start to close the lid when I notice the card.

  At first I think it’s just a business card—one shaped like a cupcake, but a business card nonetheless. Then I spot handwriting on the back.

  * * *

  Mark,

  Would love to hear how you like the caramelized pineapple, it’s a new flavor.

  * * *

  That’s followed by a tiny heart and her name. Below that is a phone number. I flip the card to see the digits are different from the ones on the front, which means she’s given me her personal number.

  Don’t do it. Don’t call. Don’t fuck this up.

  But I’m already dialing.

  She picks up on the second ring sounding breathless and cheerful. “Hello?”

  I hesitate. I could hang up now, pretend it was a wrong number or something.

  But my big, dumb heart forces the words into my throat without consulting the rest of me.

  “Chelsea,” I say. “It’s Mark. Mark Bracelyn.”

  Chapter 3

  CHELSEA

  I’m not sure what stuns me more—that I had the guts to scribble my phone number on that note to Mark, or that he actually dialed it.

  He’s silent on the other end of the line, but I can hear him breathing. Can picture him sitting on a sofa with his big arms spread across the back and a plate of cupcakes on his knee.

  “Mark,” I say when I find my voice. “It’s great to hear from you. Did you like the caramelized pineapple?”

  “I’m eating it now.” His voice is a low rumble, and I swear this is my equivalent of phone sex. Sitting here, knowing a man I’m hot for is devouring something I baked.

  “And?” I hate how breathless I sound, how needy. This isn’t like me.

  “It’s great. I didn’t expect that.”

  “To like my cupcakes?” I’m not flirting, I swear. Just looking for honest feedback.

  “Caramel and pineapple,” he says. “I wouldn’t put those things together, but it’s good.”

  I curl my feet up under me on the sofa, grateful Libby has already turned in for the night. In a few months when she’s seven, she’ll probably start pushing back on the eight-thirty bedtime. For now, it’s a blessed relief to have some quiet time to myself at the end of a long day.

  “I love playing with unique flavor combinations,” I tell him. “Things you wouldn’t think go together sometimes do.”

  He’s silent for a long time, and I wonder if I pushed my luck. If he heard that as a come-on, or if I’m blathering on with stuff his famous chef brother has already told him.

  When he speaks, his voice is low and rich as molasses. “Like chocolate and peanut butter.”

  “Sure, or you know what’s even better?”

  “What?”

  “Chocolate and sesame.” I’m being a food geek, but I don’t care. I could talk about this stuff all night. I snuggle back on my couch, wondering what it’s like to cuddle with a guy as big as Mark. Would that beard tickle the back of my neck? Would arms that size feel comforting wrapped around my middle, or like a pair of anacondas poised to crush the life out of me?

  Something tells me it’s the former.

  Food. Right, we’re talking about food. “Sesame has a more complex, savory flavor than peanut,” I tell him. “Mixing it with chocolate is decadent, especially if you throw in a little Himalayan pink sea salt.”

  “Wow. That’s—you’re getting me all worked up.”

  Oh, Jesus.

  He didn’t mean that in a sexy way, he didn’t.

  But my body responds like he’s whispering dirty words in my ear. I keep going, hungry for more of that same response.

  “You know what else is great with chocolate?”

  “What?”

  I lick my lips, part of me wanting to blurt out a desire to drizzle it on my breasts and have him lick it off.

  Down, girl.

  “Avocado,” I tell him. “It adds this creamy, silky texture, and this amazing richness. I do a mousse sometimes that’s great on my red velvet cake.”

  “God.”

  I’m not imagining it. He sounds as turned on as I feel. I keep going, totally in my element. “Spice is good, too,” I tell him. “With chocolate. I do a raspberry jalapeno cupcake with bittersweet chocolate that’s really popular around the holidays, and a flourless chocolate cayenne cake that’s to-die-for with—”

  “Stop. Chelsea, you’re killing me.”

  His protest is gruff and breathless, and I look down to discover my fingertips skimming my nipple through the thin cami top I’m wearing. I draw my hand back fast, thankful my daughter is a sound sleeper. What the hell am I doing?

  I clear my throat and try to think of something non-food porny to talk about. “So you’re the handyman.” I glance down at my hand grazing the junction of my thighs and shift it to my knee fast. “At the resort,” I clarify. “And with my door. Thanks again for—”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve always been good at fixing stuff.”

  I wait, wondering if he’ll say more. Tell me about building things with his dad or splitting wood for his sister. When the silence stretches for more than a few heartbeats, I hustle to fill it.

  “Did you learn that from your dad, or—”

  “Yeah.”

  One syllable. I can’t even tell from the tone if it’s a happy one or bittersweet. His father died a couple years ago, and though I never met him, his financial status was legendary. “I’m sorry he passed,” I murmur. “He must have been a great guy.”

  “Sometimes.”

  Another one-word answer. Another long stretch of me waiting to hear if there’s more or if that’s pretty much it.

  Mark clears his throat, and I grip the phone tighter. “Kinda weird for a wealthy guy with mansions all over the world to be handy with tools,” he says. “But he was.”

  There’s definite nostalgia in his voice, and I suspect I’ve just gotten a rare glimpse into the inner workings of Mark Bracelyn. I hold my breath, waiting for more.

  I wait a long time.

  Finally, I can’t take the silence. “Bree says you built most of the cabins at the resort,” I say. “You and your cousin, Brandon.”

  “We all did,” he says gruffly, not clarifying who “we” might be, but clearly not loving the spotlight shining too brightly on him as a solo act. “Sean and James and I did the tables in the restaurant.”

  “Sean is the chef and James is the—”

  “Boss man. Lawyer. Yep.”

  “Wow.” I’m even more impressed than I was a few minutes ago. I’ve seen those tables, and assumed the
y came from some overpriced boutique. “You’re talented.”

  “Thanks.”

  I want to ask more. About his dad and his mom and his childhood and how he ended up becoming the guy he is now.

  But something tells me not to push. Mark Bracelyn’s like a soufflé. Rush it or jack up the temperature or bang the pan too hard and the whole thing collapses. But if you’re patient and gentle and—

  “How about you?” he asks.

  “Me?”

  “How’d you learn to bake?”

  “Oh. My grandmother. She owned a bakery in Portland. A famous one, near the Pearl District.”

  “Portland,” he says. “My mom’s got a place there.”

  “Do you visit much?”

  “As often as I can.”

  “So, you’re close.”

  “Yes.” One word, crisp and cautious, is enough to tell me I’m treading closer to something he doesn’t want to discuss.

  But he surprises me. “My mom’s the best,” he says. “Not perfect—not by a fucking long shot—but kind and smart and funny and doesn’t take shit from anyone. Anyone. She’s the best person I know.”

  Wow.

  I have trouble finding my voice. “You know, it’s every mother’s dream to have a kid who talks about her like that,” I say. “I hope my daughter does that with me someday.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Libby. Short for Elizabeth, but she’s really more of a Libby.”

  “Libby,” he repeats, and there’s something unbearably sweet about hearing my daughter’s name spoken in Mark’s gruff voice. “That’s pretty.”

  “Thank you. She’s named after—”

  Bing-bong.

  “Dammit.” I scramble off the couch, hoping whoever the hell is ringing the bell at this hour doesn’t wake Lib. “Hang on a sec.”

  “You expecting company?”

  “No.” I peer through the window beside the door, but there’s no one out there. I flip on the light and scan the sidewalk. No one. “It’s been happening a lot. Just neighborhood kids playing ding-dong-ditch, I guess.”