Page 12 of Kissed By The Lumberjack
4
ROWAN
Ididn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hand on my breast. His mouth on my throat. The hard length of him pressed against my stomach.
So, when 6 AM comes, I'm already dressed. Standing in the kitchen with a mug of coffee I made myself. Watching the sunrise paint the mountains gold through the window above the sink.
The front door opens. Ev stops when he sees me.
He looks like hell. Dark circles under his eyes. Jaw tight. He's wearing the same flannel from yesterday, rumpled like he slept in his truck.
"You're up," he says.
"Couldn't sleep."
Something flickers in his expression. We both know why.
"Coffee's hot," I say, because one of us has to pretend last night didn't happen.
He pours himself a mug without speaking. We stand on opposite sides of the kitchen like strangers. Like he didn't have his tongue in my mouth twelve hours ago.
"About last night," he starts.
"We don't have to talk about it."
"Rowan—"
"I'm here to do a job." I set my mug in the sink. Turn to face him. "Whatever that was, it can't happen again."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then he nods. "Agreed."
The word shouldn't sting. It's what I wanted him to say. The professional response to a professional situation. We kissed. It was a mistake. We move on.
So why do I feel like I just lost something?
"Let's go," he says, grabbing his keys. "Crew's already up there."
The timber standis different than I expected.
I've seen logging operations before. Clear-cuts that leave mountains looking like someone took a razor to them. Erosion so bad the streams run brown for years. The destruction that happens when profit matters more than preservation.
This isn't that.
Ev walks me through the stand, pointing out the trees marked for cutting. They're spaced strategically. Older growth that's stopped producing. Damaged trunks that would fall in the next big storm anyway. Between them, younger trees reach toward the light, healthy and thriving.
"We take maybe ten percent per season," he explains. "Less if the growth rate looks slow."
"Who decides the rate?"
"I do. Based on the surveys." He gestures to a tree with orange tape around its trunk. "This one's got beetle damage. You can see the boreholes near the base. If we leave it, the infestation spreads. Take it out now, the surrounding trees have a better chance."
I crouch down, examining the holes. He's right. The telltale patterns of bark beetle. Left unchecked, they can devastate entire forests.
"Most operations would clear-cut the whole area," I say. "Claim it's the only way to control the spread."
"Most operations are wrong."
