Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
With rugged good looks and muscles for days, Harris Bennett stops traffic no matter what he’s wearing—flannel shirt or football jersey. So when management sends him to Star Lake, Washington, for a team-building retreat, it’s no wonder a local mistakes him for a lumberjack. And Harris leans right into the misunderstanding. Because that “local” looks amazing in yoga pants.
Lucy LeBrandt is a yoga instructor with trust issues: She doesn’t have time for men. But she’s definitely drawn to the hot, goofy lumberjack who seems to know nothing about, well, lumberjacking. He’s only in town for a week. Maybe she can squeeze him in between classes…
Harris has no idea what to do with an axe, and Lucy has no idea what to do about Harris. But they both know exactly what to do when they’re alone together. Can they split the difference between them, or is their romance just one stroke away from “TIIIIIMBER!”?
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Harris
I know relaxing isn’t in your DNA, but you owe it to yourselves to try—you assholes need it, some more than others.
Coach’s voice carried through the locker room when he made his announcement a few weeks back, half joking—about sending the team on a retreat.
Retreat?
What are we, ten years old?
Management always gets what it wants, and what they want is all the guys on my line sent on a team-building retreat. Don’t know who pissed in their Cheerios, but it looks like I’m gonna be stuck in some rando lake resort near the mountains for some “well-deserved” R & R and other nature-inspired bull crap.
As if throwing a bunch of competitive maniacs in the wilderness were going to help us unwind and bond and shit.
I mean. What does one do at a lake?
Kayak? Not interested. Go boating? Last time I boated, it included beer and wakeboarding, and we’ve been told not to embarrass ourselves by drinking. Can’t swim—too cold. And have I mentioned I loathe getting touched by things I cannot see beneath the water? Seaweed and such?
Uh, hello—have you heard of the Loch Ness Monster?
Don’t fish. I refuse to. Since I went fishing with my Grandpa Walt the summer I turned nine and got hooked in the ear by one of his errant casts, I will not fish, and you cannot make me. The grudge game is strong with this one.
“Fishing is a state of mind, bro,” my teammate Dex declared after discovering our destination was a mountain town. “It’s you, your worm, and—”
I cut him off. “I’m not touching worms.”
He shrugged. “You can use fake bait. Some of them have glitter.”
“No fishing.”
“Fine.” He sneered at me, disgusted by my lack of masculinity. “Don’t come crying to me when you’re bored out of your mind.”
Bored?
Yeah, I probably will be bored; at least I’ll have my own space.
I was lucky enough to score my own little cottage (thanks to my seniority), which is more than I can say for half the linemen on my team, crammed together in the massive lodge at the top of the hill.
Granted, it has a full staff and full amenities. And room service. And a spa . . .
I double-check the address on my phone before pulling into the gravel driveway of my little rental, happy to have finally arrived after a three-hour-long drive from the city. Cut the engine and sit gazing at it several moments, taking in the peace and quiet.
Not a peep, unless you count the birds.
I listen harder.
Huh. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
I step out of the truck, pea gravel gritty beneath my boots, and retrieve my overnight crap. With the press of a button, the hatch in back lifts. I grab my bag and heft it over my shoulder, glancing around me at the trees and stuff.
The resort has cottages scattered near the lake, a long stretch of water and shoreline in the near distance. Pine trees line the edge of the property, their needles crunching under my feet along with the gravel, branches swaying softly in the wind.
I raise my nose in the air and sniff; the faint smell of woodsmoke lingering, mixing with the scent of pine, crisp and fresh.
“Ahhh.”
Not bad at all!
Beyond the cottages, a vast lake glistens under the sun’s rays, with dozens of docks stretching out with an invitation to dip your toes into the cool water or jump in—something I will not be doing.
My assigned cottage isn’t big by any means, but the charm makes up for its size. Window boxes. Two matching rocking chairs. I squint at them, trying to picture myself sipping coffee out here like the sort of calm, reflective guy who drinks coffee by the lake.
News flash: I am not that guy.
A stone path leading up to a door painted a muddy shade of green—the same color as the patches of moss that cling to the sloped roof in a way that feels more quaint than neglected.
Best of all?
No roommate.
I drop my bag on the porch with a satisfying thud and stand there, soaking in the silence. No teammates bitching at each other. No Coach blowing his whistle like we’re about to storm the beaches of Normandy. Peace and quiet.
Solitude.
But no key.
Why did I throw out the welcome instructions?
“’Cause you’re an idiot.”
Whatever—I can figure this out. The key must be here somewhere.
“Great start,” I mutter to myself. Nothing says relaxation like breaking into your own cabin.
I glance around like the key’s going to magically appear in front of me. Maybe it’s under the doormat or something—people do that, yeah?
After a few moments of awkwardly patting down random surfaces like a cop at airport security, I spot a little wooden plaque by the door with a cheery Welcome! sign.
Behind it?
The key.
“Wow. Great fucking hiding spot. Took all of three seconds,” I grumble, fitting it into the lock and pushing through the door. “I’m definitely going to be murdered in my sleep.”