Hottie Lumberjack Read online

  “You did the right thing,” Chelsea assures her. “Thank you for calling me.”

  “No problem.” The girl waves as a pair of headlights swing into the driveway behind us. “There’s my mom. She insisted on coming. Um, do the cops need me?”

  “I’m not sure.” Chelsea glances back to where both of them are peering at the windshield. At the words on the windshield. What do they say?

  “Could you check with them before you leave?” Chelsea asks. “Oh, I almost forgot—”

  Chelsea fishes into her purse and pulls out three twenties. Damn, is that how much babysitters cost? The single mom thing is no joke.

  “Thank you for being here, Jody,” she says. “Sorry for the scare.”

  “No worries. Call if you need anything.”

  The girl hustles out the door toward her mother, who’s already deep in conversation with the cops. Chelsea waves to both of them, then stands there helplessly for a second. A chilly breeze whips up, rustling the leaves on the willow in her front yard, and making Chelsea’s coppery hair flutter around her face.

  “Come on,” I tell her. “Let’s get inside where it’s warm.”

  “Okay.” She doesn’t move.

  Shit. What would my sister do? Or my mom. “Maybe we should have mint tea or something.”

  “Mint tea?” She blinks at me like I’ve suggested knocking back shots of molasses. “Oh. Yes, good idea.” She puts a hand in front of her mouth and huffs a breath. “I probably still smell like champagne?”

  Shit. That’s why she thinks I want mint?

  “No.” I’m damn familiar with the taste of her mouth, the sweetness of her breath. It’s not champagne at all, and I’m hungry to taste her again. “Mint tea’s good with honey.”

  “Mint tea and honey.” She gives me a weak smile as I pull the door closed behind us. “That would be a good cupcake flavor.”

  “My mom made it for me,” I say. “When I’d have a bad dream.”

  “Your mom sounds sweet.”

  “She is.”

  Chelsea glances down a long hallway. “I’d better check on Libby. You want to wait in there?”

  She gestures toward an oversized purple couch before scurrying off down the hall. I think about offering to make the tea, but the last thing she needs right now is some oversized dumbass banging around in her kitchen. I turn toward the living room and survey the cluster of ferns by the window, the fuzzy blanket the color of warm oatmeal, the framed photo of a pig-tailed little girl. The place is cozy, like my mom’s living room.

  It was a room a lot like this one where my parents sat and had the conversation. The one they didn’t know I could hear, hunkered where I was behind my mom’s big fern in the corner. I’d gone there to grab my stuffed dinosaur, but I stuck around when they started speaking in hushed tones.

  “If you won’t marry me, then at least take this.” My dad’s voice was a weird mix of gruff and kind.

  My mom gave a soft gasp, and I peered over the edge of the pot to see her handing him something. “No one needs that kind of money for child support,” she whispered. “We’re not some charity case you can buy off, Cort.”

  My father mumbled something low under his breath, and I caught a few words I wasn’t allowed to say. Dirty words, my favorite kind. When my dad spoke again, his voice was low. “He’s my kid. I take care of my kids.”

  “Cort.” My mother folded her arms over her chest and frowned. “We don’t even know for sure he’s yours.”

  “He’s mine.”

  “But—”

  “He’s mine, goddammit.”

  My mother’s face was tight, and she didn’t answer right away. “Fine. Have it your way. But if he ever asks—”

  “He’s my kid.”

  She sighed. “If he asks, I’ll be honest.”

  I never asked. Not once, not even the summer after I turned fifteen when an envelope showed up at my dad’s ranch. I handed it to him with the rest of the day’s mail, pretending I didn’t see the return address marked “DNA Labs Incorporated.”

  It could have been anything. God knows my father was generous about spreading his DNA around.

  “What’s that?” I asked casually, hoping he couldn’t hear the interest in my voice. Hoping he didn’t know how much I’d wondered.

  “That,” he said, picking up the envelope and scowling at it. He ripped it in half, then ripped it again and again until all that remained was a pile of confetti. He grinned and met my eyes again. “That, my son, is bullshit.”

  I never asked about it again. Yeah, maybe I went back and dug the paper shreds from the trash, rummaging through his desk for the tape. I thought about doing it. Piecing those words back together and getting answers once and for all.

  But in the end, I chickened out. I lit a fire out back and tossed the confetti in one great big handful.

  Even then, I was a great big coward. Cort Bracelyn might have been a philandering asshole who couldn’t keep his pants zipped, and he wasn’t even that great a father. But he was my father, and I loved the son of a bitch.

  If I’m not Cort Bracelyn’s son, then who the fuck am I?

  Clearing my throat to shake myself back to the present, I aim myself at Chelsea’s overstuffed purple couch. I settle on one end of it, careful not to knock off any of the fuzzy throw pillows or disturb the pile of stuffed animals arranged in a semi-circle. The tiny plastic dishes on the coffee table suggests Chelsea’s kid had a tea party of her own.

  “Here you go.” Chelsea moves into the room with a tray holding a yellow teapot and four small mugs. Extras for the cops, though they’re still outside waving flashlights around. A third cop has joined their party, and I suspect they may be a while.

  “Thank you.” I take one of the cups from Chelsea, conscious of how small and breakable it is. I look up to see her studying my hands, and she takes a few breaths before meeting my eyes again.

  “Honey?” she says.

  My breath stalls in my chest. “What?”

  A nervous laugh bubbles out of her. “For your tea.” Her cheeks flush as she scoops up the plastic honey bear and hands it to me.

  Shit.

  I take the bear and try to pretend I knew that all along. That there wasn’t a fleeting moment where I thought we’d gone from kissing in a hallway to calling each other pet names.

  “Thanks.” I squeeze about eight tons of honey into my mug, then set it back on the tray.

  “You’ve really got a sweet tooth, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Scintillating conversation, dumbshit.

  I rifle through the trash heap in my brain for something to say. “You’ve got great cupcakes.”

  Chelsea grins, and it dawns on me that sounded like some pervy comment about her tits. Or a request for cupcakes. Either way, it sounded rude.

  “Which one tasted best?”

  I’m still hung up on the boob thing, so I take a few beats to answer. “The pineapple,” I tell her. “And the coconut and caramel one. Hell, they’re all amazing.”

  Her smile gets bigger. “I’m glad you liked them.”

  I take a sip of the tea. It’s like syrup with a little mint flavoring, which is just how I like it. I drain half of it in one gulp and wonder who the hell invented these itty-bitty cups.

  Chelsea gives me a shy smile. “Is that the way your mom makes it?”

  I nod. “Yeah. It’s good.”

  “I had peppermint and spearmint, and I wasn’t sure which you liked.” She shrugs, fidgeting like she’s nervous. “It probably doesn’t matter with all that honey in it, huh?”

  “Probably.” God, she’s sweet. And I’m an idiot who can’t carry on a conversation. I swipe a hand over my beard. “My mom’s the opposite. Can’t stand sweet tea.”

  “How about your dad?” she asks. “Did you get your sweet tooth from him?”

  I swallow hard, tasting honey on the back of my tongue. “No.”

  She’s still looking at me, and I know I owe her somethi
ng more. A thank you for the tea at least. “My mom had a lot of boyfriends.”

  Now where the hell did that come from?

  Chelsea doesn’t bat an eyelash, though. “Was that hard on you?”

  I set my tea on the tray, sloshing a little over the edge. I have no idea why I brought that up, and no idea how to get out of talking about it now.

  See? This is why I don’t share shit.

  But I opened this can of worms, so I might as well throw a few of them at her.

  “Sometimes,” I say. “I mean, single moms deserve a life, too, right?”

  “Of course.” She sips her own tea. “Not at the expense of their kids’ happiness, though.”

  “It wasn’t like that.” Not exactly. I wonder if Chelsea noticed my single mom comment. “My parents never got married.”

  “No?” She looks surprised. “I’m sure she had her reasons.”

  Now that’s interesting. Most people who hear that figure it was my dad’s call. Philandering billionaire knocks up a school teacher and pays her off so he doesn’t have to marry her.

  But it wasn’t like that at all. Not even close.

  “She never wanted to get married,” I say. “Called marriage a trap.”

  “Harsh.” She cocks her head to the side. “Have you been married?”

  “No.” Big shocker.

  I want to ask her about herself. I want to know everything about her, down to where she buys powdered sugar and what sounds she makes when she comes.

  But I remember what she said about people at the bakery asking nosy questions, so instead, I refill my tea and keep my dumb trap shut.

  “I haven’t been married, either,” she says. Her gaze flicks to the front window as blue and red lights flash outside. So much for the cops playing it cool.

  When Chelsea looks back at me, her eyes are troubled. “Sorry I tried to argue about you bringing me home,” she murmurs. “I didn’t think it would be that bad. I didn’t think—I guess I’ve never had anyone destroy something of mine like that.”

  There’s a part of me that’s aching to pull her into my arms and kiss her again so she stops looking like I ran over her puppy. But that’s the last thing she needs from me right now.

  “Any idea who’d do this?”

  She looks down into her lap. “No. Not really.”

  “Not really.” That’s not the same thing as absolutely not.

  I wait for her to say more, but she’s as tight-lipped as I am. Fair enough.

  Her hands are folded on her knees, fingers interlaced like she’s holding herself together. I hesitate, then reach over and cover both her hands with one of mine.

  She looks up again, and I hold her gaze. “I know there’s stuff you keep to yourself,” I say slowly. “I’ve got things like that, too.”

  She looks at me for a long moment. “Okay.”

  “Do me a favor when Austin comes in here,” I tell her. “Be straight with him. I’ll leave the room if you want, but he needs to know if there’s something that’ll help him catch who did this.”

  She nods again, then bites her lip. “I dated him.”

  “Who?”

  “Austin.” She glances toward the door. “That’s not a big secret or anything. Bree knows about it, and it isn’t like we were serious or anything. I just—I wanted you to hear it from me. In light of—um—”

  The fact that we were all over each other less than thirty minutes ago?

  She’s got nothing to worry about if she’s thinking I’ll be jealous. Not my style.

  “Austin’s a good guy,” I tell her. “You have good taste.”

  She smiles, and I wonder if she took that as some kind of ego stroke. She kissed me, after all, so does that mean I’m a good guy?

  “I don’t, actually,” she says, and it takes me a second to find my place in the conversation. “Have good taste in men? I—um—the thing is, I haven’t always made great choices.”

  I keep my eyes locked on hers, waiting for her to continue. It’s okay if she doesn’t want to. She owes me nothing, but I find myself wanting to hear more. To understand what makes Chelsea…well, Chelsea.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Do I need to beat anyone up for you?”

  She laughs, but there’s something stiff in her laughter. A hint that I may have struck a nerve. “See, that’s the thing. This guy I dated before Austin—Charlie? He, um. Well, he turned out to be—that is, he—uh—he hit.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Rage flares under my breastbone, hot and dangerous.

  “It only happened once,” she says quickly. “And I left right away after—”

  “Where is he?” My hands ball into fists on my lap. “I’ll kill the bastard if you say the word.”

  She looks at my hands, then shakes her head. “It won’t be necessary. He’s in jail. Not for the abuse, though it did turn out he had a record for it.”

  “I hope he rots there.”

  That gets a stiff smile out of her. “Thank you.” She presses her lips together. “Anyway, he wasn’t the only one. I mean, he was the only one who hit me—it was just the one time. But there were other men, guys who weren’t all that nice.” She takes a shuddery breath and gives me another forced smile. “I wanted you to know that. My judgement, it hasn’t always been so great. It’s kind of a flaw.”

  “Sounds like you’re not the one who’s flawed.”

  Her blue eyes flash. “I am, though. I pick the worst guys and think I can fix them. That they’ll become better, that they’re really good people deep down.”

  “You have a kind heart,” I tell her. “That’s not a flaw.”

  “Thank you.” Her smile seems steadier this time. “For what it’s worth, my taste seems to be improving.”

  I’d like to think she means me, but I’m probably kidding myself.

  “We both have histories,” I tell her. “Unless yours includes serial murder or rooting for the Yankees, it doesn’t change how I think about you.”

  The edges of her mouth tug up, the first full smile I’ve seen since we got here. “You think about me?”

  Busted.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “I do. But before we go too far, I should tell you that I—”

  Ding-dong.

  God dammit.

  Chelsea flies off the couch and runs for the door. She throws it open to reveal Austin there arguing with the younger cop.

  “—you don’t ring the doorbell when there’s a kid sleeping,” he snaps.

  “It’s okay, come in,” Chelsea says, ushering them inside. “I need to check on Libby, though. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  She’s gone before I can say anything, so I stand there staring at the cops. I jerk a thumb at the sofas, figuring that’s what she means by comfortable. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” Austin folds himself into an armchair upholstered in cream and purple stripes, while the younger cop—Studebaker?—takes a seat on a loveseat that matches the sofa. I hesitate a second, not sure whether to sit or stay standing.

  But cops aren’t fans of big shaggy-looking guys towering over them, so after a few beats, I settle back on the couch. I put my hands on my knees where they can see them, aware of the murmured voices down the hall. Chelsea’s kid must’ve woken up.

  “Mark is Bree’s brother,” Austin says by way of introduction. “Studebaker’s new to the force.”

  No shit.

  I nod in acknowledgment and glance at the door. “You’ve still got someone out there?”

  “Dusting for prints.” Austin clears his throat. “You were with Chelsea when her sitter called?”

  I wonder what the hell Bree told him. “Mark had his tongue down Chelsea’s throat” sounds about right.

  “I was at the lodge,” I say. “So was Chelsea.”

  Austin nods and leans back against the armchair. Anyone who didn’t know him might assume he’s just phoning it in, that he’s not taking this seriously. But I know Austin, and I know this posture is the one Bree calls Casual
Cop Mode. The guy knows what he’s doing. “Bree mentioned there’d been other incidents.”

  I glance toward the hallway and wonder how much to say. It’s not my place to tell Chelsea’s story.

  But it is my place to say what I’ve witnessed, so I do. I tell them about the fucked-up door, and about the ding-dong-ditch thing last night. Somewhere in the middle of that, younger cop takes out a notepad and starts jotting. Austin keeps his eyes on me, his expression steady and unflinching.

  I’m wrapping up my account when Chelsea walks back in with a fresh honey bear. Shit, I emptied the other one.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she says as she pours tea for the cops and hands them each a cup. “Sounds like Mark filled you in on everything?”

  “Yes, but we’d like to hear from you.” Austin glances at me, and that’s my cue to stand up again.

  “I can wait in my truck,” I say. “Or in another room.”

  “No, stay.” Chelsea puts a hand on my arm, and I glance down to see her eyes are wide and fretful. Under the happy hostess front, she’s scared as hell.

  I drop my ass back down on the sofa and settle in next to her. She leans close, and I feel how cold she is. I pull the oatmeal colored blanket off the back of the sofa and arrange it around her shoulders.

  “Thanks,” she murmurs, then looks at the cops. “Let’s see. The door at the shop was messed up when I came in the other morning. Monday, I think?”

  “Has this happened before?” Austin asks.

  “No.” Chelsea bites her lip and glances at me. “The ding-dong-ditch thing has, though. Three or four times, maybe?”

  That’s more than she told me about, but I don’t react.

  Neither does Austin, not visibly anyway. “It’s always at night? The doorbell ringing, that is?”

  “Yes.” Chelsea looks down at her hands. “I thought someone was trying to scare me. Kids or something.”

  “Do you keep cash at the shop?” Austin’s voice is velvety smooth and unthreatening. I’m grateful he knows what he’s doing.

  Chelsea shakes her head. “No. Not here, either. I didn’t—” she glances at me. “I didn’t think the stuff at the shop could be connected to the doorbell stuff here. Not until tonight.”