Page 53 of Jealous Lumberjack

I drop the axe, stalk across the clearing. The men part like grass in the wind, no one daring to meet my eyes.

“Time,” I bark over my shoulder. “Finish up without me.”

No one argues.

I grip Lily’s arm, not hard but firm enough she knows I mean it. She looks up at me, wide-eyed.

“Bear—”

“Not now.”

I haul her to the truck, throw the door open, all but lift her inside. My blood’s boiling, chest heaving, every instinct screaming at me for being stupid enough to bring her here.

As I circle to the driver’s side, one of the more decent men of the bunch clears his throat. Older guy, kind enough, not stupid enough to step closer. And most definitely not looking at my woman.

“Hey, Hunter,” he says carefully. “Me and the guys were thinking... it’ll be good to see you at the Harvest Fair. Kicks off next weekend. It’s been a while since you came. Just saying... if you fancy it?”

I don’t answer. Don’t even look at him. I climb into the cab, slam the door, fire up the engine. He jumps back as I shove the truck into reverse.

We peel out, gravel spitting.

For a while, it’s just the roar of the truck and the pounding in my chest.

Then her voice, quiet. “Are we gonna talk about that?”

“No.”

She sighs. A flash of terror rolls through me, but when I glance out the corner of my eye... fuck me, she’s not upset. Hell, the corner of her lush, fuckable mouth is ticked up. Like she’s... happy.

I swallow, keep my eyes on the track.

“What did he mean? What Harvest Fair is he talking about?”

Her question lances through me, sharp and merciless.

Because I know the truth. Everything that I feared is unraveling. She was curious about logging. Now she’s curious about the town? The fucking fair?

What if... what if...

I can’t finish the terrifying thought. Can only stomp harder on the gas.

It was a mistake bringing her.

A mistake letting anyone see her.

A mistake that could cost me everything.

And everything inside me screams that I should’ve kept her locked away on the mountain.

10

LILY

The truck growls up the mountain, but it’s not the engine rattling my nerves. It’s him.

Knox’s hands are white-knuckled on the wheel, jaw clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grind. His chest heaves like he’s still ready to fight every man in that clearing.

I try to soothe him, touch his arm. He jerks away. Not violent, but sharp enough to sting.