Page 5 of Kissed By The Lumberjack
2
ROWAN
The filing cabinet smells like dust and old paper. I've been hunched over it for two hours, and my back is screaming, and Everett Cole is still an insufferable ass.
City girl.
I yank open the third drawer with more force than necessary. The metal screeches. Outside the window, I can see the logging crew wrapping up for the day, their voices carrying across the clearing. Laughter. The thunk of equipment being secured. Normal end-of-shift sounds from people who didn't just get condescended to by a flannel-wearing mountain man with sawdust in his beard.
His very attractive beard.
I shove that thought down where it belongs and flip through another stack of harvest plans. The records are surprisingly organized for the last three years. Clear documentation. Proper permits. Replanting schedules that exceed the state minimum. Either Cole Timber runs a tight ship, or someone cleaned house before my arrival.
My phone buzzes. A text from my supervisor, Greg.
How's the audit going?
I type back:
Just started. Records look clean so far.
Good. Don't let the locals charm you. These family operations always have skeletons.
I stare at the message. Greg has been with the compliance office for twenty years. He's seen every trick in the book. But something about his assumption rubs me wrong. Maybe because the records in front of me tell a different story than the one I expected.
Or maybe because Everett Cole is anything but charming.
The office door opens. I straighten, tucking my phone away, already composing a professional response to whatever accusation he's about to throw.
It's not Everett.
A woman stands in the doorway. Silver hair, bright blue eyes, a basket hooked over one arm. She's tiny. Probably five feet in heels. And she's looking at me like I'm the answer to a question I didn't hear.
"You must be the compliance officer."
"Rowan Cafferty." I extend my hand. "And you are?"
"Patty Cole. Ev's mother." Her grip is warm, her smile warmer. "I heard you might need a place to stay."
Of course he told his mother. Of course he did.
"I appreciate the concern, Mrs. Cole, but I'll figure something out."
"Patty, please. And honey, I've lived in Whisper Vale for forty years. There's nothing to figure out. The festival's got every room from here to Reno." She sets the basket on the desk, pulling back a checkered cloth to reveal sandwiches and what looks like homemade cookies. "I spoke with Everett. He's going to offer you the guest room at his cabin."
I blink. "He is?"
"He doesn't know it yet."
"Mrs. Cole?—"
"Patty."
"Patty. I can't stay with the man I'm here to audit. That's a conflict of interest."
"You can't audit anything if you're sleeping in your truck." She pushes the basket toward me. "Eat. You look hungry. And don't worry about my son. He's grumpy, but he's harmless."
Harmless is not the word I would use.
