Page 1 of Taken By the Lumberjack
CHAPTER ONE
Charlie
The ice machine was making that grinding noise again, the jukebox had eaten three quarters without playing a single song, the lights flickered like a freaking poltergeist was on the payroll and one of my regulars was currently trying to convince his wife over the phone that he was just having one beer while nursing his fourth whiskey.
Welcome to my inheritance.
Charlie’s Taproomwasn’t the kind of place you brought your mother or your first date. The wooden bar was scarred, the floor slightly sticky no matter how much I mopped. The water stain near the pool tables in the back was growing at an alarming rate, which meant there was some kind of pipe situation in the tiny upstairs apartment I now called home.
It had been six weeks since I’d driven to Lone Mountain, Montana and met with a lawyer who’d handed me the keys. I’d laughed at the name on the deed. Taproom implied upscale clientele and artisanal cocktails. I was still figuring out how to keep the lights on without going broke.
My patrons were good old boys looking to unwind — firemen, cowboys, the occasional lawman, lumberjacks, and of course the grumpy mountain men Lone Mountain was apparently famous for. I’d moved here after an uncle I barely knew died, leaving behind a decent office job and a string ofdisappointing relationships with men who wanted their women to fit into size-six jeans and never eat carbs. Here, surrounded by men who worked with their hands and didn’t flinch at a little grit, I thought maybe my curves wouldn’t be the first thing everyone noticed. Or judged.
I thought maybe I could just sling drinks, keep my head down, and skip the heartbreak of watching a guy’s interest evaporate the second he realized I came with hips and an ass that actually filled out my jeans.
I’d been doing a pretty good job of that, untilhehad started coming in on Fridays.
He was part of the infamous McAllister logging family who apparently had a complicated history in this town that nobody fully explained but everyone referenced with a significant look. All of the brothers were tall, handsome men, who looked like they didn’t give a damn about what anyone thought about them.
After that first Friday, he was here like clockwork. He’d come in, assess the room, order a beer and head to the booth in the back. I didn’t know if this was his routine before I’d gotten here or something new. I just knew his dark eyes tracked my every move with an intensity that made my skin prickle in a way that had no business feeling as good as it did.
He never made small talk. Never flirted like the other regulars. Just watched.
I had never had a man look at me like that before and I didn’t know whether to be scared or turned on.
My damp panties told the truth for me.
Right now, those dark eyes followed me as I bent to grab a case of beer from the lower shelf. I was acutely, painfully aware of how my jeans stretched across my hips. Finding pants that fit both my ass, and my waist, was a mythological challenge — I’d long since made peace with the fact that I was always going to be showing a little more than I intended when I crouched down.
I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to see Colt look away. That was the reflex — brace, because men always looked away eventually, or worse, looked and let you see the flicker of disappointment that quickly diminished the look of want.
Colt didn’t. He never did.
I’d started looking forward to Friday nights more than I should have. Stealing glances at him when I thought he wasn’t looking. Taking in how his dark hair curled slightly at his neck, the way his jaw clenched whenever another man talked to me for too long.
“Charlie!” Dale Morrison called out from one of the pool tables near the back of the room. “You playing tonight or just standing there looking pretty?”
“Looking pretty doesn’t pay the bills, Dale. Beating your ass at pool does.”
A chorus of laughter rolled up from the regulars. I grabbed a cue and felt myself relax into the familiar rhythm. This I could handle — smart mouth, quick wit, keep everyone at arm’s length with humor and trash talk. It was when things got quiet that I started overthinking.
I was lining up my shot when the front door opened.
Two more McAllisters walked in.
Grant and Sutton. I’d learned the brothers by reputation before I’d learned them by name. Grant was the responsible one, Sutton was the charmer, and Colt was the quiet storm in the corner booth who made me feel things I shouldn’t. And there were three more, all cut from the same cloth — broad shoulders, strong hands, that particular brand of mountain-man confidence that made women do stupid things.
I watched Sutton’s gaze find his brother. Something passed between them — amusement on Sutton’s end, a warning on Colt’s.
My shot went wide. The cue ball rolled pathetically into the corner pocket.
“Scratch,” Dale announced with entirely too much glee.
I stood back and let him take his turn, which gave me somewhere to look that wasn’t that damn back booth. Just then, a fat drip of water fell from the ceiling and landed at my feet.
“Damn it.” I grabbed a bucket from behind the bar and positioned it under the leak. The steady drip-drip-drip of water hitting plastic was a song I didn’t want to hear.
Sutton appeared at my elbow, watching me position the bucket with the satisfied expression of a man who’d just had an idea.
