CHAPTER THREE
Roxie
I did not sleep well.
Not because the bed wasn’t comfortable—it was possibly the most comfortable bed I’d ever been in, all soft sheets and pillows that felt like clouds.
The man must have spent a fortune on the bedding alone.
No, I didn’t sleep well because every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Bridger’s hands on that espresso machine. And the freaking chainsaw. Why the hell had that been so sexy? Because he had strong, capable hands that knew exactly what they were doing.
Hands that I had absolutely no business thinking about.
Get it together, Roxie.
I gave up on sleep around six-thirty and padded into the bathroom. The soaking tub called to me after weeks on the road staying in the cheapest accommodations I could find, but that felt too... intimate. Too much like making myself at home.
The shower, though. The shower I could justify.
I turned it on and immediately understood why rich people acted the way they did. This wasn’t a shower. This was an experience. Rainfall showerhead. Body jets. Steam. The water pressure alone could’ve solved world peace.
I moaned. Possibly more than once.
When I finally dragged myself out, I dug into me duffel bag, regretting my choice of travel wear. I’d wanted clothes that wouldn’t wrinkle. Sighing in regret, I pulled out a pair of clean shorts and t-shirt, then stared at myself in the mirror.
My hair was doing that thing where it couldn’t decide between wavy and frizzy. I’d packed makeup just as lightly as my clothing—lip gloss and mascara. I’d been going for finding myself vibes. Now, I regretted several of my decisions. Now, I found myself wanting to lean into the impressing a hot lumberjack vibe.
I hadn’t had a cup of coffee yet and I was about to break another rule.
Rule #27: Never let a man see you first thing in the morning until at least date five.
Well, Momma, I was blowing right past that one. Here I was, about to go downstairs with bedhead and no concealer and shorts that had seen better days.
I tugged at my t-shirt, smoothing it over my hips. I’d worked hard to make peace with the body I had. Ignoring years of magazines and movies telling me my curves were not the norm.
Most days, I genuinely loved how I looked.
I liked that my waist nipped in before flaring out into a soft, generous pair of hips, and I loved that I actually filled out a pair of shorts. But standing in the bathroom of a man who looked like Bridger—all hard lines, dense muscle, and chiseled perfection—those old, venomous voices from my corporate past tried to whisper that I was too much. That a mountain god like him only went for women who looked like yoga instructors.
I shoved them back where they belonged.
Momma had other rules. One she’d told me when I’d cried over a boy I liked in eighth grade who noticed the shiny lip gloss another girl wore to school.
Rule #36:A man who only likes you with makeup on isn’t a man worth keeping.
She’d said it with a wink. Said the right man would think I was beautiful no matter what I had—or didn’t have—on my face.
So I was going downstairs with my bedhead and my morning face and my dignity intact. If he didn’t like it, that was his problem.
The smell hit me first. Coffee. Rich and dark and perfect.
Then I saw him.
He could fit that description as well. Rich and dark and perfect.
Bridger was in the kitchen, wearing black joggers and a gray t-shirt that clung to his shoulders in a way that made me want to squeeze my legs together. His hair was messy, like he’d just woken up and he was… barefoot.
Barefoot.
