Page 5 of Rough Daddy (REAL DADDIES: Boone Brothers #5)

Four

Tessa

T he sound of an axe splitting wood pulls me to the kitchen window.

The smaller cabin has the scent of a well-used fireplace inside. It’s minimalist, although I doubt Beau has hopped on that trend because it’s a trend. It’s just who he is.

There’s a wood-framed sofa with dark green cushions. A couple of polished tree stumps for end tables. I poked through the kitchen. A few white plates, mismatched coffee mugs. The refrigerator has a few bottles of water and beer inside, but not much else.

My luggage sits in a mountain of brown and gold in the corner.

Beau's out front, swinging a maul like he has a vendetta against every log. His black t-shirt clings to shoulders that could give me one heck of a piggyback ride.

When he strips it off and tosses it over a stump, I press my palm against the glass.

What the hell is wrong with me? The man was trying to help, and I lashed out like some feral cat. I snapped at him, not because I was angry but because I was scared. Because for a split second, all I saw and heard was my father losing his temper.

Now Beau is out there, sweating and gorgeous and probably thinking I’m a princess bitch. But my wrist is fine. Nothing broken, no pain except a little in my heart.

My phone buzzes against the counter, a fleeting signal coming through and delivering a message. A picture of Ethan flipping me off. My stomach clenches, but I just flip it over.

This I can’t fix right now, but there’s something else I can.

I want to march out there and show him how wrong he is about me. Want him to pin me against that woodpile and put his hands everywhere he's been so careful not to touch. Want to call him sir again and watch that muscle tick in his cheek.

For the first time in so long, I’m not thinking about cameras and angles and who might be watching.

Time to do something about it.

The impractical boots have to go before they send me toppling over that suicide drop behind the cabin.

My blouse is still damp from the car wash water. I root through my bags until I find the perfect balance between unconsciously sexy and semi-practical.

Inside the little bathroom, I strip, redress and emerge feeling more like Tina and less like Tessa.

I slip outside barefoot. The breeze kicks up. My nipples try to punch holes through the thin gauzy fabric of the vintage halter top I chose. I paired it with a tiered denim skirt, channeling my inner eighties girl as the screen door shuts behind me.

Beau swipes the back of his wrist over his forehead, resting the axe against a stump.

I hang back, watching the grouchy way he carries wood from the woodpile to the stone outdoor oven. Smoke winds out of the little chimney as he feeds a couple of new pieces into the opening.

I breathe deep.

The smell of woodsmoke and something incredible—bread? Pizza?—makes my mouth water.

"You cooking something?" I call out.

His movements stall, a split fragment of log in his left hand halfway into the fire. His eyes drag from my bare feet up my legs, my hips, my stomach, to where the halter top clings around my breasts.

"Yeah." His voice is as rough as the bark in his hands. "Hungry?"

"Smells amazing." I hop onto the grass from the porch, the cool ground centering me as it connects with the bottoms of my feet. I swing my hips as I walk his way until I’m close enough to feel the heat from the stone oven. And from him. "What are you making?"

"Food." He drops the log into the flames. "You look like you could use some good groceries."

"I'll have you know I had a very nutritious gas station hot dog for lunch."

His mouth almost twitches into a smile as he runs those rough fingers through the front of his hair. "Christ. No wonder you keep falling on your ass. All those nitrates."

"I didn't fall on my ass."

"Would have." He reaches down for another log, tossing it into the fire, then rubbing his palms together, his muscles shifting under the gleam of slightly sweat-dampened skin. "If I wasn't there."

I cock my head, wiggling my tongue behind my incisor. "Then I guess I should thank you for saving me… and my ass."

“No need. Just don’t fucking hurt yourself again. That’s all the thanks I need.”

“You don’t like when I’m hurt?”

The way his spine snaps straight makes me pause, remembering I’m alone up here with the largest man I’ve ever encountered in real life.

His gaze jumps to my wrist, and he grimaces as he takes a step forward.

“No. I don’t like when you are hurt,” he says, like he’s stating the obvious.

“I’ve seen enough of that to last a lifetime. ”

"Good," I whisper, stepping back. Teasing. Something I never would have thought of in the past but now seems so natural. "I was starting to think you didn't like me."

“Show me your wrist. Let me check it.”

“It’s fine. I don’t want to talk about my wrist.”

“Don’t make me ask again, little girl.”

The way he says little girl makes things rattle loose in my belly. I try to hide the deep inhale I take as he leans closer, then hold out my wrist. He doesn’t touch it, just looks at it, tongue glancing his lower lip, teeth digging in.

“Any pain?”

I shake my head, wondering how breathing suddenly became so complicated. “I told you, I’m fine.”

His jaw locks as he chokes out a low grunt.

"Dinner's almost ready." He turns back to the oven, giving me lusty whiplash. "Want wine? My brothers’ wives left a bunch of pink stuff. Tastes like candy but with a kick."

"Yes," I breathe. "God, yes."

Two hours later, I'm three glasses deep in a very fruity pink wine and I'm ready to climb this mountain man like a coconut tree.

The food was incredible. Roasted chicken that fell off the bone, vegetables that tasted like something, sourdough bread still warm from the oven. But every time I lean in closer, every time I make an attempt to get my fingers anywhere near him, he pulls back like I’m tainted.

It's driving me nuts.

Liquid courage takes control of my mouth. "This is ridiculous," I snap. "What's your deal?"

He drags my half-empty wine glass out of my reach.

"You look at me like you want to devour me one minute, but the second I get within a foot of you, you act like I have the plague."

His jaw goes tight. "It’s complicated."

"Make it simple." I lean forward, elbows on the table, cupping my chin in my hands. "Do you want me or not?"

"Tina…" My fake name sounds so good coming from those lips.

"Because I want you. And I'm tired of pretending otherwise." I lean forward. "So either tell me why you won't touch me, or I'm going to touch you and see what happens."

He shoves back from the table so fast his chair topples over with a loud bang. "Not gonna happen."

I blow out a breath. The wine is pushing on my bladder. "You have a bathroom in here I assume so I don’t have to stumble around in the dark back to my private suite?"

"Upstairs. Turn left." He stacks our plates, and doesn’t meet my eyes as he heads to the sink.

I push to my feet on a little sway. "We're not done talking." I jab a finger in the air, my tongue feeling thick.

He grumbles something, but his eyes follow me as I head for the stairs.

I wobble to the top of the stairs, find the bathroom easily, but the door across the little hallway is cracked open.

Light filters out in a vertical streak, and curiosity gets the better of me.

Snooping around the guest cabin proved fruitless when it came to good intel on this sexy mountain man, but this room looks promising.

The sound of plates clinking and water running downstairs gives me the push I need.

The door opens silently, and I lean in, hand resting on the smooth brass knob, my eyes scanning. The desk is covered in small tools and pink and purple plastic parts. There's a legal pad with diagrams and notes in black ink.

I tiptoe closer. The room has a faint scent of Beau. There’s not much other than the desk and a tall bookshelf with what looks like vintage car manuals, the sight of which lights up my heart.

Another clink from downstairs. I know this crazy man will be bolting up the stairs to see if I drowned in the toilet if I take too long, so I lean over the desk and take it all in.

"What the hell?" I press my fingers to my lips, reading the black scratchy writing.

Rechargeable battery—8 hours. Multiple settings—start low. Taped to the pages are anatomy diagrams of female genitalia that look like they are from medical textbooks.

Then, there are the parts.

I pick up a disassembled vibrator, still in pieces, and stare at it like it might explain itself.

Jesus Christ. Beau Boone has been studying sex toys like they're carburetors.