The sound of machinery grew louder as I approached the main building. It was too cold for the bay doors to be open so I slipped in through the side door. Inside, I could see theorganized chaos of a working sawmill—conveyor belts moving lumber, workers in safety gear manning various stations, sawdust floating through the air like snow.
And then I saw her.
Every thought in my head ground to a halt.
She stood at a table saw, her back to me, operating the machine with the kind of confident precision that came from years of experience. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, wisps escaping to curl at her neck. She wore fitted jeans that hugged curves made for a man’s hand and a green thermal shirt that clung to a body that was all soft femininity despite—or maybe because of—the industrial setting.
She was built like a woman should be built—the kind of curves that made a man’s hands ache to grip and hold. Full breasts that would overflow my palms, rounded hips made for grabbing, an ass that made my mouth water and my body harden. Not model-thin or gym-hard, but real. Substantial. The kind of curves a man could lose himself in.
She shifted her weight, adjusting the board she was cutting, and the movement made those hips sway in a way that shot straight through me. I could see the concentration on her face. The way she bit her lower lip as she guided the wood through the blade with steady hands made me want to sooth it with my own.
Those hands. Small, capable, confident. I wondered what they’d feel like on my skin. Wrapped around me. Digging into my shoulders while I was buried inside her. Gripping my hair while I put my mouth between her legs and made her scream.
Stop. Stop right there, I warned my suddenly horn-dogged self.
I forced myself to look away, to take in the rest of the scene. This was a job. A favor for Race. Nothing more. It didn’t matter that the woman running the saw was the most beautiful thing I’dseen in... fuck, maybe ever. It didn’t matter that just watching her work was doing things to me that I had no business feeling.
I was here to help, pay my debt, and leave.
That was all.
I took a step forward, my boot scuffing against concrete, and the sound must have carried over the machinery because she turned.
And I got my first full look at her face.
Fuck me.
If her body had been a sucker punch, her face was a knockout blow.
She was younger than I’d thought—late twenties, maybe thirty at most. Ten years younger than me, easy. Her face was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and a mouth that was full and pink and currently pressed into a line of concentration. But it was her eyes that got me.
Green. Not just green—the deep, rich green of pine trees against snow. Framed by dark lashes and sharp with intelligence.
Those eyes locked on me, and I swear to God, I felt it like a physical touch.
She startled, her hands jerking on the board. The saw blade caught wrong, and the wood kicked back with a violent snap. She stumbled, off-balance, and my body moved before my brain caught up.
I was across the space in three strides, catching her around the waist with one arm while my other hand slammed the emergency stop on the saw. The blade whined to a stop, and suddenly the only sound was our breathing and the thundering of my pulse in my ears.
She was pressed against my chest, soft and warm and smelling like sawdust and something sweet—vanilla, maybe, or honey. Her hands had grabbed my forearms, fingers digging intomuscle through my jacket, and I could feel every curve of her body against mine. There was no hiding my reaction. Not with her body molded to mine.
I cursed again. She was perfect. Soft where I was hard, curves fitting against me perfectly. The top of her head barely reached my shoulder, making me feel even bigger, more aware of the size difference between us. Her breath came in little gasps that made her breasts rise and fall against my chest, each inhale pressing those soft curves tighter against me until I had to lock every muscle to keep from grinding into her. From showing her exactly what she did to me.
And what I wanted to do to her. I wanted to sling her over my shoulder and carry her away. Back to my cabin, where I could enjoy her for days. Hell, for eternity.
It took every ounce of control I’d built over the years to keep from pulling her closer, from sliding my hand up to cup one of those perfect breasts, from finding out if her mouth tasted as good as it looked.
She tilted her head back to look up at me, eyes wide, and I saw the moment awareness of the state of my body hit her.
Yeah. She felt it. My hard-on. It was a rare occurrence for me these days. I left women where they belong—away from me.
“Who are you?” Her voice was breathless but sharp, with an edge that suggested she didn’t appreciate being caught off-guard. “And why are you in my sawmill?”
My sawmill.
Well, fuck Race. Of course, his friend who needed help would be a woman. This curvy, gorgeous, competent woman who’d nearly had an accident because I’d startled her.
This was going to be a problem.
