Page 42 of Dumped for a Christmas Tree Farmer

I fight the low growl that rumbles in my throat. No one gets to call her that but me. Ridiculous, I’m aware. They’ve known Indy her whole life, and I met her five days ago. But I feel like I have the right; Holly doesn’t. Not after the shit I’ve heard the last few days.

Clanging and yelling ring out from the kitchen. Pans falling to the floor as the chef blusters out of the swinging doors with all the chaos of a hurricane.

“The motor in the hood has gone again, Bella. It flipped the breaker. I can’t keep working in these conditions. Marco used to fix it, and he didn’t show me how before he left for his vacation.” He throws a cloth over his shoulder, and I half expect his mustache to start twitching.

Bella sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Looks like those orders might be out, guys, sorry.”

“I can take a look at it?” Indy offers. “The motor in the hood at the B&B used to blow all the time. I got pretty good at patching it up.”

James scoffs, sliding into the booth next to Holly, who has a face like thunder. I don’t know what she’s up to, given that hours ago she was willing to get back together so she could get the bakery. James seems to be none the wiser.

“Thank you so much, Indy, you’re amazing,” Bella squeals.

“Mav, can you come with me? I’m going to need your help.”

“I can help,” James jumps in.

She smiles politely but swings a crushing blow to James’s ego. “Mav has experience in fixing things; he runs a few buildings. We’ll be back soon—get the drinks in?”

She saunters away, following the chef and Bella through the swinging doors. The silver tables are covered in half-filled orders; line chefs are standing around in their stained white jackets, waiting for their next instructions.

Indy looks at the oven, crouching in her knee-high leather boots, the heels dangerously high for a dive bar, but where else is a girl to get dressed up around here? I’m appreciating the view a little too much until she lowers to her knees.

“Indy, your dress.”

“Right . . . umm, Bella, could everyone leave the kitchen for five minutes?”

Bella points a finger toward her chest, and Indy gives her a nod. “Alright, everyone, five minutes to smoke, call your mom, grab a non-alcoholic drink. We’ll call you back shortly.”

I stay right where I am, resting lazily against the silver table, one foot hooked over the other.

Once the swinging door closes, Indy whips off her sweater, leaving her in a loose, silky dress that clings to her like an oil slick. Black, of course.

Her arms contort behind her, and I hear the telltale signs of a zipper. She tugs the fabric over her head, wearing nothing but a strapless black lacy bra that squeezes her tits deliciously tight, and a matching black thong. Her soft belly sucks in, and she hands me the dress. My eyes roam every inch of her body. And with the boots? I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind.

“Keep an eye out, will you? I don’t want any lookie-loos.”

She grabs a chef’s shirt and pulls her arms through, pushing just one button through the hole just so it clings together.

She swivels, the cup of her ass on display as she lifts to her tiptoes and pulls out the filter on the extractor.

At the sight of her bowed back, I lift my clenched fist to my mouth and bite down hard on my knuckles. Christ, she’s gorgeous.

She pulls one of the disgustingly greasy metal filters off and wiggles it at me.

“This thing is clogged. The fan is basically not extracting anything. They’ve just got to clean it more frequently, and then it won’t keep triggering the breaker. This won’t take long.”

She removes the remaining filters along the extractor and dumps them into the sink before spraying some chemicals she found beneath the sink. I peer over her shoulder and see it’s degreaser.

Why is this turning me on? Seeing her move around this space completely competently is making my pants tent. This was nothing to her. The chef stormed out in frustration, but she came in and solved it in under a minute.

I want her. For keeps. Unrealistic ideas are running through my mind right now. Like ways to keep her permanently. Like taking her in the filth of this dive bar kitchen. Not sure health and safety standards would appreciate that.

What is it about a woman who’s not afraid to get dirty that’s so hot? She’s a fixer, a problem-solver, unflappable. She’d do well working with me, keeping an eye on the properties, maintaining them, fixing things up. Strategically, it would be good too. My crew is mostly male, given that the majority of those in this industry come with a Y chromosome. Not that her gender has anything to do with this at all; she’s obviously skilled at fixing problems. I just happen to like sparring with her and making her blush. And I couldn’t say that about Jerry, my sixty-five-year-old property manager, who has just retired.

I pull on a pair of rubber gloves and start rinsing the first filter after the allotted five minutes of soak time. Indy takes it off me and clicks each one back into place once we’re done.

After washing her hands, I hand her the dress, and she slips it back on. She flicks the breaker, and the lights and equipment rumble to life, including the extractor. A low hum filling the room.