I made myself step back, made myself let go of her even though every instinct screamed to keep her close. My hands felt empty without her waist beneath them.
“I’m Crew. Race sent me.”
Something shifted in her expression—surprise, then understanding, then something that looked almost like embarrassment. “He did?”
“He said you needed help at the sawmill.” I kept my eyes on her face, refusing to let them drop to her body again no matter how much I wanted to. “I owe him.”
She straightened, brushing sawdust from her jeans in a gesture that drew my attention exactly where I didn’t want it to go. To her thick thighs and wide hips. When I forced my gaze back up, she was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“I didn’t ask for help,” she said, and there was pride in every word. Defensive pride, the kind that came from having to prove yourself over and over again. “I’ve been running this mill for years. I don’t need—”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t handle it.” I cut her off, keeping my tone neutral. “I was told you needed help. There’s a difference.”
Her jaw set, and those green eyes flashed with something that looked like temper. God help me, it was attractive. Everything about her was attractive—the defiance in her stance, the competence in her hands, the curves that wouldn’t quit.
Fuck Race Gentry, I cursed to myself again.
“And Race sent you?” She crossed her arms under her breasts, and I had to work very hard not to stare at the way the motion pushed them up. “Why?”
“Because I owe him my life, and when Race Gentry calls in a favor, you show up.” I held her gaze, letting her see I meant it. “So I’m here. You can use the help or not, but I’m not leaving until Race says the debt’s paid.”
We stared at each other, tension crackling between us like static electricity. I could see her weighing her options, pride warring with practicality. I saw the moment practicality won.
“Fine.” The word came out clipped, grudging. “But I’m the boss here. This is my mill, my rules. You follow my lead, do what I tell you, and don’t question me in front of the men. Understood?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrowed at the ma’am, and I bit back what passed as a smile for me these days. No doubt the ma’am had rankled. I hadn’t meant to make her feel dismissed or patronized. It was habit I couldn’t break.
“I’m Charlotte,” she said, sticking out her hand. “Charlotte Adams.”
I took her hand, and a jolt tore through me. Her hand was small in mine, callused from work, and warm. So damn warm. I shook once—firm, professional—and let go before I could do something stupid like hold on too long.
“Crew.”
“Just Crew?” One dark eyebrow arched. “No last name?”
“Crew Crawford.”
She studied me for a moment longer, and I had the uncomfortable feeling she was seeing more than I wanted her to. Then she nodded and turned away, giving me a view of that ass again.
I was definitely, absolutely, completely fucked.
“Come on then,” she called over her shoulder. “Let me show you around. And Crew?” She glanced back, and there was challenge in those green eyes. “Try not to sneak up on me again. I’d hate to have to explain to Race why his favor sent me to the hospital.”
Despite myself, despite everything, I felt my lips twitch. “Yes, ma’am.”
The look she shot me could have melted steel.
Yeah. This was going to be one hell of a long couple of weeks.
CHAPTER TWO
Charlotte
I stared at the computer screen in my office, the supply order blurring in front of my eyes. I’d read the same line three times now and still had no idea what it said.
Focus, Charlotte.
