Page 9 of Lumberjack DADDY (Yes, Daddy #55)

EMERY

E li lets me into his cabin, then sets my bag down on a table beside the door.

As terrified as I was by whoever was chasing me in the woods, the moment I step into his cabin, I feel myself relax.

I feel calmer. I feel… safe. Something about this man, as gruff and imposing as he is, makes me feel protected.

I don’t know why, given that I don’t even know him, but something about Eli makes me feel like nothing bad can happen to me.

His place isn’t large. There’s only one bedroom that I can see from where I’m standing.

It’s a lot like the cabin I’m staying in, with a table in a dining nook set off a galley-style kitchen.

There’s a living room with a sofa, a coffee table, and a desk under the window on the far side of the room.

There isn’t much in the way of decorations or personality, and yet, the plain and unassuming feel of the place somehow just seems to fit him to a T.

On a bookshelf that stands near the desk, I see a couple of framed photos, so I wander over and pick one of them up. It’s a picture of a younger Eli with some other men. They’re soldiers, and it was obviously taken in a faraway land.

“You were in the Army?”

He somehow slipped up behind me without me even hearing him move. It’s unsettling that a man as large as Eli can move so quietly. He plucks the frame from my hands, a stern expression on his face, and carefully replaces it in the exact same position on the bookshelf.

“Marines,” he says.

“Where was that picture taken?”

“Afghanistan.”

“Oh,” I say. “You were in combat?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m a curious girl.”

“Apparently,” he says. “Anyway, you can have my room. I’ll ride the couch.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t?—”

“You can have my room. I’ve got the couch.”

He says it with such finality, all I can do is nod in acceptance. “Thank you,” I say. “And thank you for… everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

The man is a brick wall.

He obviously doesn’t like talking about himself or his past, and there was a time when I would have let it go.

When I would have felt like I was prying and should just let it be.

But it feels like a switch inside of me has been flipped.

I’ve only been here a few days now, but I already feel like a completely different person.

And this new person I am feels bolder. Feistier.

I’m intrigued by Eli and want to know more about him.

I sit in one of the chairs at the small table in the dining nook. “So, you think you know who was out there?”

He nods. I wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t say anything more, making me laugh softly. A brick wall indeed.

“So? Who do you think it was?” I finally ask.

“Travis,” he says. “The kid from the market.”

I sit back in the chair and shake my head. It’s so obvious I should have thought of it myself. But I was so caught up in my fear, I wasn’t thinking straight and couldn’t see the obvious answers staring me in the face.

“Of course,” I say. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”

“It’s not easy to think clearly when you’re scared,” he says. “But in the morning, I’ll go down to the market and have a word with him and his boss.”

“What can I do to thank you for helping me?”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

“Seriously, I know you didn’t have to come help me, but you did. And I’m grateful?—”

“Really, don’t sweat it. I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you. Not in my cabin,” he says. “My liability insurance would have gone through the roof.”

I stare at him for a moment before I see the corners of his mouth flicker upward.

“Did you just make a joke?” I ask.

“No. I don’t make jokes.”

And for the first time, Eli and I share a laugh.

And his laugh is a deep, resonant rumble that slides deliciously across my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

It feels nice. Honestly, I wasn’t sure he was capable of laughing.

I was starting to think he’d had whatever part of his brain that controls laughter removed.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“Yeah. I can eat.”

He nods, and I follow him to the kitchen, where he stands in front of the refrigerator, staring into it for a long moment.

“I’m not much of a cook, I’m afraid,” he says. “I’m also not used to cooking for anybody but myself. I can whip up some pancakes or an omelet if you’d like?—”

“Tell you what,” I interrupt.

“To thank you for coming to my rescue?—”

“He was gone. You hardly needed a rescue.”

“Regardless, you came,” I say. “I’m going to make you dinner.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“And you didn’t need to come running with a shotgun in hand to defend me,” I tell him. “But you did. So, the least I can do is make you dinner.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but I hold a finger up to forestall whatever he’s about to say.

“I’m going to make you dinner. That’s all there is to it,” I tell him.

“I was just going to ask whether you prefer red or white wine?”

“Oh. Red, please,” I say and look around. “Is there a hidden wine cellar here?”

“I’ve got an underground cellar outside. It’s cooler down there, so I store food, wine, whatever I need to make it through if there’s a storm that washes out the road.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Often enough to make having my cellar practical,” he replies. “I’ll get a bottle.”

I smile. “Great.”

He walks out of the cabin, leaving me speechless.

It’s not surprising to learn the man has an underground bunker.

He kind of has that prepper vibe, to be honest. But knowing it’s not for the end of days but for a practical use that doesn’t involve the end of the world or a fight against the government does surprise me.

It surprises me even more to know he has wine.

It seems more refined than I would have expected from him.

He’s obviously a far more complicated man than I imagined.

And that makes him even more attractive to me.

With him outside fetching the wine, I start hunting through his refrigerator, cabinets, and pantry, taking a mental inventory of what he’s got on hand.

I was expecting to find cans of beans and maybe the odd frozen meal.

Obviously, I’ve stereotyped the man to death.

But I am surprised to find that he’s well stocked with fresh fruits, vegetables, and meats, as well as all the regular staples.

Instead of having to work a miracle with some ramen and beans, I might actually be able to put together a decent meal. So, I set to work.

About an hour later, Eli comes in, freshly showered and in jeans and a black t-shirt that’s stretched taut across his broad shoulders and chest, the short sleeves showcasing his thick biceps. I have to physically rip my eyes off the man. I clear my throat and finish setting the table.

“Wow, this smells amazing,” he says.

“It’s nothing fancy. Just a pasta dish my mom taught me like a thousand years ago.”

He smirks. “Emery, I’ve got socks older than you.”

That makes me laugh. “You’re an ass.”

“I’m aware.”

We sit down at the table, and as I dish out the pasta, he pours the wine, and I can’t help but think just how domestic the scene is. Even stranger than that is the fact that I like it.

“So, what brought you out here, anyway?” he asks.

It’s not lost on me that this is the first time he’s made small talk with me. The first time he’s expressed any sort of curiosity about me. I can tell by the hesitance in his voice that Eli is not much for small talk, or for conversing at all, really. But he’s trying. Which is sweet.

“I finally ended a really bad relationship,” I tell him. “I came out here to get away from it all and to kind of… find myself again.”

“And have you? Found yourself?”

“I think I’m getting there, yeah.”

“That’s good,” he says. “What’s with the pictures?”

“I’m a photographer. Or, I’m trying to be,” I tell him. “Part of finding myself is finding the joy in my art and my life again. I’m trying to remember how to love myself again. It’s something my ex took from me.”

“He didn’t take it from you,” he says as he takes a sip of his wine. “You gave it to him.”

Part of me is offended by that. But he didn’t say it unkindly. It was a simple statement, and it sounds like there’s some bit of wisdom he’s trying to impart. It piques my curiosity.

“What do you mean I gave it to him?”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s that we’re only responsible for ourselves,” he says.

“And nobody can make us feel any way we don’t already feel deep down.

If your ex made you feel insecure or bad about yourself, it’s because somewhere inside you, you thought he was right. You gave him that power.”

There’s a small piece of me that wants to argue with him.

That wants to be offended. But I take a beat and sip my wine instead.

I really think about what he’s saying. It’s not because he’s twice my age that I give more credence to what he’s saying.

Yes, he’s older and has more life experience than I do.

But it’s not that. It’s because there’s another piece of me that hears the ring of truth in his words… as much as it galls me to admit.

“I guess I haven’t really thought of it like that before,” I admit.

He shrugs. “I mean, that’s just my opinion. Don’t take it as gospel or anything. It’s just something I’ve come to believe.”

“I think… I think it’s wise.”

A couple of moments pass in awkward silence, and Eli is looking everywhere but at me. There’s a palpable tension in the air between us that feels like anticipation. Expectation, maybe. But then he clears his throat and gets to his feet.

“The meal was excellent, Emery. Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll clear the table.”

“I’ll help,” I say and jump to my feet.

Working together, we clear the table and get everything into the kitchen.

Eli nudges me out of the way so he can get to the sink to start washing them.

I laugh and throw my hip into him. He doesn’t budge an inch, but he does laugh.

And when our eyes meet, I feel like I just stuck my finger in a light socket.

My skin tingles from head to foot, and a shudder runs through me.

As if we’re being drawn by some invisible force, the space between us narrows then vanishes.

I slide my hands up his broad, hard chest as he leans down.

And when our lips meet, fireworks explode behind my eyes, and my head spins.

I’m lightheaded. But I lean into him, as our kiss deepens, his tongue like velvet against mine.

He pulls back suddenly, his eyes wide, his face etched with uncertainty. He looks like he’s about to say something. Like he’s about to end the moment. Gripping the front of his t-shirt, I don’t let him, kissing him even harder than before.