Page 4 of Lumberjack DADDY (Yes, Daddy #55)

ELI

B lowing out a long, frustrated breath, I knock on the door.

A moment later, it opens, and I find myself staring at Emery Pierce, the haunted girl I saw in the woods the other day.

She’s wearing a pair of black yoga pants, thick socks, and a black t-shirt featuring what I assume is a band.

One I’ve never heard of. I’m doing my best to keep from gawking at her, but it’s hard not to notice the way her clothes cling to her curves.

Even dressed down and casual, she’s stunning.

“Hey,” she says. “Thanks for coming so quick.”

“Yep.”

I step into the small cabin and am pleased to see that if nothing else, she’s tidy. Soft music is playing—something classical, it sounds like. Not my normal thing, but it’s miles better than the bubble gum pop or that rap garbage most people her age listen to these days.

“I don’t know what happened,” she tells me. “I was trying to make some dinner, but the stove isn’t working.”

Walking into the kitchen, I set my toolbox down. “No worries. I’ll figure it out.”

“That’d be great. Thank you.”

“Yep.”

I take a few minutes to check out the stove and assess the situation.

As I work, I can feel her hovering. Can feel her eyes on me.

She’s got this nervous energy, and I can hear her shifting on her feet behind me.

Frankly, it’s kind of driving me nuts. And it’s distracting me enough that it takes me twice as long as it should to diagnose the problem.

I finally do, though, and am glad to see it’s an easy fix.

Shouldn’t be more than fifteen or twenty minutes, and I can get the hell out of here.

“So, uh, do you know what’s wrong with it?” she asks.

“Yep.”

I dig around in my box for the right tools, and as I do, I happen to find myself staring into her deep brown eyes.

My gaze slides lower, taking in her full, heart-shaped lips.

They look soft. Pillowy. And as I gaze at them, I find myself wondering what they might feel like pressed to mine.

Or on other, lower parts of my anatomy. Giving myself a quick shake, I turn back to the work at hand.

I need to fix this and get the fuck out.

“So, were you born and raised in Greencrest, too?” she asks.

“Nope.”

“Wh—where are you from?”

“All over.”

“Oh. Okay.”

All I want is to get this oven fixed and get the hell out of here.

Being around this girl is fogging my mind.

I’ve always said I don’t really have a type when it comes to women, but if I had one, it would be her.

And the way she’s standing there staring at me, doing her best to make conversation, I feel like she’s trying to make some kind of a connection.

It’s the last thing I need. It’s the last thing I want.

People are complicated, and I don’t need my life to be any more tangled up than it’s already been. I just want to live in peace.

At the same time, I’m having trouble not engaging her.

There’s just something about this girl that triggers something deep inside of me.

I wish I could say it’s because she’s hot and I’d love nothing more than to bend her over this table and bang the shit out of her.

But it’s not that. I mean, yeah, I’d definitely be into spending some quality alone time with her, naked.

But there’s something more than that bubbling below the surface.

I know myself well enough that I can feel it.

Which is yet another reason I need to finish this job, pack up, and get the fuck out of here.

The very last thing I want or need is a complication like that.

Throughout my life, I’ve had a bad habit of collecting wounded birds and trying to nurse them back to health.

It’s never worked out well for me. And yet, I keep trying.

Until now. Not anymore. It’s not hard to see that Emery is a wounded bird. I saw the haunted look in her eyes the first time I saw her, and it hasn’t lessened a bit since then. She’s looking at me like she somehow just knows I fix broken things.

Like she wants me to fix her.

But I can’t do it. I won’t do it. Not again. The only thing I fix these days is busted stoves and refrigerators. Other than that, I’m done.

“So, anyway, I’m Emery,” she says.

“Yeah. I read that on your rental agreement.”

“Right. But I never got your name?”

I sigh. “It’s Eli.”

“Nice to meet you, Eli.”

“Yeah. You too.”

She hops up on the counter beside the stove and swings her legs back and forth.

I glance up at her as she twirls a length of her auburn hair around her finger.

It galls me to admit it, but she’s adorable.

And when her light brown eyes lock onto mine, I feel a hard lurch inside of me, like somebody just took a sledgehammer to my chest.

I quickly turn away and focus on the stove.

I’m moving automatically, like a robot, losing myself in the mechanics of what I’m doing while trying to keep myself from stealing a glance at the beautiful girl sitting three feet to my right.

It’s not helping that I can smell the hint of her perfume—a light, floral fragrance that frankly, is driving me fucking bananas.

Her perfume must be laced with pheromones because I’m stiffer than goddamn steel right now.

“So, are you married?” she asks.

“Nope.”

“You don’t say much, do you?”

“Depends,” I tell her.

“On what?”

“On whether I have something to say or not.”

From the corner of my eye, I can see her smile, and it lights up the room. I have to force myself to keep from turning in her direction or risk losing myself in that smile.

“You like being the dark, brooding, and mysterious type, huh?”

“I’m not trying to be any type,” I tell her. “I’m just here to do my job.”

“You could try being a little friendlier.”

Clenching my jaw, I finally turn to her. “And why would I need to do that?”

She shrugs. “Because it’s good customer service.”

“I’m not in the service industry. I’m a landlord. You rent space from me,” I growl. “I don’t need to be anything but present and able to fix what breaks. And that’s all I’m going to do.”

I expected that would be the end of it, but she’s got a little smirk on her full, heart-shaped lips that sends a quiver through me.

And she’s looking at me like she knows a secret.

The girl has a glint of determination in her eyes that tells me she’s used to getting her way, and right now, she sees me as a new toy to play with and won’t be satisfied until I give in and dance to her beat.

Well, I’ve got news for her. I’m at least twice her age and ten times more stubborn. My years of experience with people like her are going to help me outlast whatever game she’s playing. The guys in my old unit used to say I could give stubborn lessons to a mule. She’s going to find out.

“I’m done,” I say, packing all my things into my toolbox.

“Stove works?”

I turn it on, and it immediately grows hot. “Looks like it.”

“That’s great. Thank you.”

“Sure thing.”

Picking up my toolbox, I head for the door.

“So, I guess I’ll see you around then,” she calls after me. “We have a conversation to finish.”

I cast her a dubious look over my shoulder as I walk out of her cabin and close the door behind me.

That girl is trouble.

The best thing I can do for myself is stay away from her.

Far away.