Lumberjack Werebear (Saw Bears Book 1) (5 page)

Brooke eyed the fabric swatches in the home improvement aisle at the general store on the main drag in town. It only sold two shades of blackout curtains, sky blue and sunny yellow.

She’d had big plans to sleep in this morning after the late night she’d kept, but the blaring sunlight in her bedroom had other ideas. Her eyelids were probably sunburned from her attempt to ignore it. And then, out of frustration, she’d woken up and did something awful. Painted something awful. Lots of somethings.

She’d never actually felt pain when she was painting before, but this morning, she’d almost made herself sick with the images of her attacker that flowed from her paintbrush and onto those canvases.

She snatched a couple of packaged curtains in blue and tossed them into the cart. She made to speed off toward the art supplies section but pulled the cart to a stop and stared thoughtfully at a shelf of bathmats. A gold one kind of matched the baby-diarrhea-colored bathtub. She grabbed that and took another look down the aisle. It was kind of fun shopping for her trailer, now that she was going to stay for a while. A kitchen mat, a towel set for the bathroom, a miniature whicker trashcan, and a pair of soap dispensers later, Brooke was looking forward to decorating her little place. It had already been furnished when she came, but the little personal touches were missing. And the more she found enjoyment out of picking out those personal touches, the more 1010 felt like a home away from home.

With her bags in hand, she stepped out of the general store and waved to an older man in coveralls who waved back. Without her asking, he grabbed the heavy bags and walked her to her car, chatting about the weather and how it was supposed to rain tomorrow. She thanked him, and he tipped his ball cap and went on his way, but she stood there for a minute, watching him leave. That was the first time anyone had offered to help her with her bags, and he was a complete stranger.

She looked down Bridge Avenue and smiled at the hustle and bustle of the town’s residents after getting off work. A number of restaurants seemed to be drawing in the crowds, but even the busiest passersby nodded their heads in greeting. She liked this place. Everyone seemed friendly. This was different from the city where she sometimes felt like a number in the masses.

She locked up her car and jogged across the street to a small grocery store. She’d been too stubborn to beg breakfast off Connor this morning, and now she was starving. Intending to fully stock the small swing-door pantry in 1010 and fill the fridge, she pulled the door open and grabbed a cart.

Shopping on an empty stomach was a terrible idea. She wanted every food she passed by. The basket was already half full by the time she stopped in front of the cold cuts in the back.

Steak, yes.

Pork chops, absolutely.

Bacon? Hell yes to that. She had a craving, and it involved copious amounts of the savory strips of meat.

Someone ran into her cart with theirs, and the sound of metal on metal nearly made her jump out of her skin.

“Hey there, stranger,” Tagan said through a cocky grin. “Fancy meeting you here.”

His bright blue eyes held her trapped, her body locked against any movement. He’d filled her mind all day, but was the last person she’d expected to see here. “H-hi.”

His grin deepened. “You planning on eating all that bacon yourself?”

She stifled a smile, because really the man shouldn’t be encouraged. “Are you judging my groceries?”

“You don’t want to cook bacon in a trailer.”

“I want a BLT.”

“What’s that?” he asked, leaning on the front handle of his cart. His muscles looked yummy all flexed like that, and when his T-shirt stretched farther up his arm, a small tendril of ink was exposed on his tricep. A tattoo? Dammit, she was a sucker for those.

“Brooke? You okay?”

With a monumental effort, she dragged her gaze back to his and cleared her throat. “I’m fine.” Except her voice had gone up an octave. She cleared her throat again and tried to mentally stifle the burning heat that was creeping up her neck. “Bacon, lettuce, and tomato.”

His dark eyebrows drew down. “Pardon?”

“A BLT. It’s a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. Put them on some toasted bread with mayo and bingo bango, magic in your mouth.”

His eyes dipped to her lips, and the heat in her cheeks flamed hotter.

A knowing smile crooked those sexy lips of his, and he pulled his attention back to the refrigerated shelf of meat. The grin slowly faded. “I have to tell you something.”

“Okay.” That sounded foreboding.

“I saw those paintings you did this morning.”

Horror slammed into her middle. Gripping the bar of her cart, she gritted her teeth to stifle the urge to verbally filet him right here in front of the meandering shoppers. “You had no right to go into my place.”

“Yeah, I did,” he said, the humor gone from his voice. “I thought maybe you left. I was making sure your stuff was still in there.”

His tone sounded hurt, and her ready insults froze on her tongue.

“Now, listen before you get on me, woman. I’m not good at talking, and I don’t say the right things most of the time, so bear with me. That’s not all I wanted to tell you.” He stopped, searching her eyes like he didn’t know how to go on.

“What else, then?” she asked, scared of what he would say but too curious to let him go without attempting.

“I’m proud of you.”

Whatever she’d thought was going to come out of that man’s mouth, that wasn’t it. “What? Why?”

He drew up close to her, close enough to touch and lowered his voice. “I know it cost you to start painting again, especially like that. I’m proud you’re facing your demons, Brooke.”

“You don’t think…” How could she ask his opinion without seeming needy? How did she tell him his thoughts on her work meant more than the art critic’s write-ups in her local newspaper? How could she stand here, looking at this almost stranger, and tell him his views on those paintings, the ones she planned on never showing anyone, meant the world to her? “Do you think I’m crazy now?”

“Because of what I saw in those paintings? No. I think you’re hurt, and I think that asshole deserved to be painted like you did. I didn’t like the subject of them, but anyone with eyes in their head can see you are an artist, and a good one at that. Keep painting that man, or paint stars or horses or jack-a-lopes, I don’t care. I just think it’s good that you’re painting.”

Pride surged through her, spreading outward from her middle until she was warmed with it. He got it. This man who worked with his hands all day. This man who was caked in dirt, contrasting against the clean, white linoleum tiles beneath their feet. This rough-around-the-edges, tatted-up country boy understood her in a way no one ever had before, and perhaps in a way no one ever would again.

“It means a lot that you said that,” she admitted quietly. Without thinking, she reached forward and brushed a spot of dried mud off his forearm. His muscles bunched and tensed, startling her, and when she glanced up, he looked just as rocked as she felt. Holding her breath, she rested the palm of her hand against his arm and left it there, daring him to jerk away from her. He didn’t. Instead, he pulled her other hand to his lips, and brushed a light kiss across her knuckles. His eyes were so intense, they almost seemed to change colors in the fluorescent lighting. His lips were soft against her skin as he lingered there. “We’re friends,” he said, dropping her hands gently to her sides. “Touch me like that, and I’ll want more.” It sounded like a threat the way he said it.

Without another word, he pushed his cart forward and left her there, knees unsteady and warmth pooling between her legs.

She stared at the small mountain of bacon in her cart with wide eyes and rubbed her tingling knuckles where he’d kissed them.

He made it sound like a bad thing, him wanting more, but to her, it sounded just right.

****

Brooke parked in front of her trailer and stared out the side window in disbelief. Bruiser leaned against the fence near the front entry sign watching Denison glide over a gravelly clearing behind a white, jacked-up monster truck. Haydan, Drew, and Kellen were hootin’ and hollerin’ from the bed of the truck while Connor was driving donuts on what looked like an old, oversize basketball court.

“Is Denison skiing?” she asked as she approached.

“They found a pair in the storage closet in the office,” Bruiser said, bending at the waist until he rested his weight onto the rickety, splintered fence.

From here, she could make out the skis on Denison’s feet as he held onto a rope. Sparks were flying from the backs of the skis. “Aren’t they worried about starting a fire?”

“Nah, it’s too wet. Won’t catch.”

She giggled as Denison wobbled.

“Straighten out, you pussy!” Haydan yelled, then they all burst out laughing as Connor jerked the wheel, and Denison flew sideways, losing control.

He landed hard in the grass, but none of them even waited to see if he was okay before Drew was out of the truck and pulling the skis off Denison’s feet. “My turn,” he declared.

By the time all of the men had a turn, Brooke was nearly crying with laughter. As she wheezed and doubled over, Bruiser clapped her on the back and boomed a laugh right along with her.

“Idiots,” he said, wiping moisture from the outside corners of his eyes.

“They’re lucky none of them were seriously hurt,” Brooke said. She had a cramp in her side from laughing and massaged it with her fingers.

“It’d take much more than that to injure a—” Bruiser jerked his gaze to hers and the smile dropped from his face. He cleared his throat. “You got groceries you need help carrying in?”

Brooke canted her head and frowned. “To injure a what?”

“What?”

“That’s what I’m asking. You said it would take much more to injure, then you let it drop. Injure a what, Bruiser?”

“Man with that many beers in his system. Come on.” The humor in his face was gone as he turned and marched away.

She followed slowly. That wasn’t what he was about to say. “What’s going on?” she asked.

Bruiser ignored her and jogged to her car, as if attempting to escape her questions.

“Fine. Keep your stupid secrets.”

“Tagan’s planning a celebration for you tonight.” Bruiser pulled open the back door to her car and tugged out a couple of shopping bags.

Brooke locked her legs and skidded to a stop. “A celebration for what?” Please, God, don’t let it be for painting again. Her issues were not something she wanted to make public knowledge here.

“It’s a welcome to the park celebration. At least, that’s what he said on the phone. He’s picking up supplies in town for a barbecue. You’ll die and go straight to heaven when you taste the food tonight.”

He was distracting her, but okay. It was better than awkward silence. “Oh. Well, is there anything I can bring?”

“Just yourself. You’re queen of this place now. Let us spoil you like good old boys know how.”

A grin cracked her face, and she ducked her chin before he could see it. Maybe Connor had been right to call her princess. She was a trailer park princess now. Her friends back home would crap themselves if they knew how happy she was in this place. It was the first time in months she’d been able to smile without feeling some awful sense of guilt. Here, the troubles of the city seemed far away.

Bruiser did most of the heavy lifting with her groceries and art supplies, and when she went out to check that they hadn’t missed a bag, she noticed Brighton hauling heavy-looking metal buckets of water over to the back of his truck. The weight looked substantial, but it didn’t seem to slow him down one little bit. The edges of a blue tarp flapped in the wind over the sides of the truck bed, so she meandered over there to see what he was doing. Bruiser followed.

“What are you doing?” she asked Brighton.

The man didn’t talk, but his animated expressions conveyed complete thoughts. The twinkle in his eyes was downright naughty, and he twitched his head toward the blue tarp that lined the bed completely. It was already holding water, and when he dumped the huge vats of hot water into it, the surface began to steam.

“Did you make a hot tub?”

Brighton nodded slowly and twitched his head toward the back again.

“You want me to go swimming?” she asked.

He nodded and grinned like he was daring her.

She looked at the steaming water again, then back to Brighton to gauge if he was joking. It was obvious he thought she’d say no, and something about that bothered her.

“I’ll put my swimsuit on.”

Bruiser chuckled, and Brighton’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

She bit back the smile as she jogged back to her trailer. Thank goodness, she’d decided to shave this morning. It wasn’t easy either. There were only five minutes of hot water in 1010, and she had shaved at the speed of light. She had three cuts to show from her Olympic-style razor race, too, but hey, at least she was smooth for the little two-piece she’d brought in case the “fancy rental” had a pool.

She changed in record time and slipped into a pink fuzzy robe and glittery black flip flops, then speed-walked back to Brighton’s truck.