Not a single one of them would be caught dead in this cemetery. Especially Celeste. Not when her abusive ex is buried here. That man wasn’t worth the dirt they used to bury him.
Walking the winding path through the assorted tombstones I try to identify my admirer. The list of age-appropriate men in Crescent Ridge isn’t long. My gut swirls with anxiety over the fear that some recent high school graduate with a mommy kink is going to be waiting for me. I like my men and my whiskey older. A teenager in the middle of his Edgar Allen Poe phase would be the worst-case scenario.
Hardly better would be any of the men I see on a regular basis. The barista atBean There?Or one of the stockers at the market? None of them would be ideal.
Turning a corner around a full-size angel statue, complete with spread wings and a toga, I find him.
My first thought, regardless of how inappropriate and unexpected, is a single word.
Daddy.
Just thinking it makes my cheeks burn. I’ve had fantasies, sure. I indulge in self-care. But the man in that fantasy never had a face. Tonight, when I’m alone in my bed, he will.
My second,I know him.
I don’t know his name, but I know his face.
Crescent Ridge is a small town. Everyone knows everyone. Except I don’t mingle with all the roughnecks. I’ve never had a reason to. We don’t share any interests and I’m hardly the type of woman any of them want in a partner. I’ve seen him with Calhoun, Madison’s husband. He’s a gruff, weathered man with large bulky muscles, a jaw that’s salt and pepper stubble is older than me, and a stern frown that makes me want to hit my knees and try to bring out his smile.
There’s one, teeny tiny problem.
He’s the exact opposite kind of man I’m looking for. He’s a blue-collar man’s man. All rough around the edges with a cave-man mentality.
He’s a fucking lumberjack.
“You came,” he says.
His deep voice rumbles through my core. The thrill running through my body is ridiculous. He’s wearing dirty jeans and a flannel shirt that’s worn thin at the elbows. There’s dirt on his cheek and a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Nothing about this man should be attractive to me. The way his muscles flex beneath his shirt shouldn’t draw my eye or make my tummy jump. I’m firmly in denial my body is affected by his mere presence.
“Sorry about the cryptic message. I wasn’t sure how to go about this.” He drags a rough hand through his short dark hair with a sheepish expression.
His knuckles are prominent, and rubbed raw from his work at the lumberyard.
“I’m not the best with technology, and you should get an honest look at me before we get hitched.”
The lumberjack is serious. Honest to Hecate, serious.
“You want to marry me?” I ask, gesturing at all five feet of myself with a flippant hand.
I’m nothing like the other lumberjack wives. Carina, Suzanne, and Sam Carmichael are all happy cheerful suburban mom types like my friend Madison. They’re white picket fences with aesthetic cabins in flowery meadows and I’m a wrought iron gate with aged brick and stone gargoyles.
And yet…
His eyes trail down my body like a physical caress. He’s not a man of many words but his attraction is blatant and a small part of me preens at the attention. Just thinking of the way his calloused hands would squeeze and grab at the soft and tender flesh of my hips sends a bolt of heat lancing through my core.
Only by locking my knees do I resist melting into a puddle of black goo on the leaf covered ground. I’m thoroughly convinced this lumberjack has no idea what kind of woman he’s trying to marry. He can’t.
But when those dark eyes rise to meet mine, I’m shocked at the raw desire burning feverishly within. I know his answer before he speaks.
“Fuck yes.”
Cole
“I don’t even know your name,” she whispers.
Sabrina looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. She’s bewildered and I can sense our future slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. There was a spark of heat when she first saw me. Her eyes drifted down my body with blatant admiration and my cock immediately reacted.
