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“My wife is hot and kinda scary. I dig it,” I said, seeing if I could make that blush darken. Tugging her closer, I dropped my lips to hers. The kiss started out chaste, but then I was turning her and licking across the seam of her lips, and that quick peck became a long, languid, lust-filled kiss. I couldn’t help myself. Her lips were just too fucking perfect.
I was mentally strategizing where we could find some privacy when a throat cleared behind me.
When we broke apart, I spun, finding Richard standing several yards away, arms crossed, his usual scowl in place. He had been my dad’s right-hand man for decades. A grouchy bachelor, he loved being in the woods and ran a tight ship up here. After proving myself to be useless at the business and technical sides of the operations—unlike my siblings—I was sent up here to learn the ropes from Richard and help oversee the cutting and hauling operations at camp.
He hadn’t cut me a single break in the nine years I’d been working up here. Usually, he treated me like an annoyance instead of a colleague. But while he was one mean son of a bitch, he knew his stuff, and my dad had trusted him completely.
I gave him a smile and draped an arm over Hazel’s shoulders. “Richard. Meet my wife, Hazel Markey-Gagnon.”
Hazel peeked up at me from under my arm, her face turning beet red.
Taking a step away, I gave her a nudge. She wanted to come up here, so she would have to accept that I was going to kiss her silly any chance I got.
Clearing her throat, she pulled her shoulders back. Then she strode over to him, offering her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Remy speaks so highly of you.”
His face softened. Only slightly, but more than I’d seen in the decades I’d known him. Hazel had that effect on people.
“Why’d you marry this bozo?” Richard teased, returning the handshake. “Is he blackmailing you?” With that question, the man smirked. I’d known the guy for thirty years and had never seen him smirk. Mostly, he just yelled and told me what I was doing was wrong.
“Blink twice if this is a hostage thing. I know an escape route through the woods.” And was that ajoke?
Hazel laughed and turned to me. “Remy, you didn’t tell me he was funny.” When she turned back to him, she broke out her most charming smile. “I’m sure you’re very busy, but I’d love a tour when you have a chance. I’m a student doing research, and I’d love to know more about how things work up here.”
“Yeah. You are the expert,” I added.
Richard narrowed his eyes and scowled at me, then schooled his expression and nodded at my wife. “Sure thing, Miss Hazel.”
* * *
Hazel spent the day taking photos and chatting with the crew while I hauled our bags to the private cabin. My dad had built it when he and my mom were newlyweds. Having his own space away from his crew was important to him, and my mom loved to come up here and cook for all the guys.
As newlyweds ourselves, it was fitting that we were staying here now.
“It’s like a honeymoon,” she said, taking in the tiny space. A bed in one corner and a wood stove and a loveseat on the other side.
“The guys keep it clean. In case my mom comes up. Mama Gagnon still commands a lot of respect up here.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“But she hasn’t been up. Not since Dad died.”
Hazel squeezed my hand. “Maybe one day she’ll come back.”
Dinner was served in the mess hall. Ace, one of the crane operators, was cooking, and Matt was playing guitar. This time of year, we only kept a skeleton crew at camp, but they were having a good time.
We wandered the halls of the large building so Hazel could look at the old photos on the walls. It never failed to hit me, the history of my family and our ties to this land. Men in hats and collared shirts standing proudly with axes next to massive felled trees. Photos of logs floating down the river to the mill, of horses pulling loads of lumber. Hazel stopped in front of each one and studied it carefully, a small smile on her face the entire time.
“This,” I said, pointing at a black and white photo that was dated 1925, “was my great-grandfather, Pierre.”
“Her face lit up. He looks like Henri without the beard.”
I laughed. He did. Barrel chested and tall, with a serious demeanor. I had never met him, but my grandparents had told story after story about him when I was a kid. “That’s him. And the first Gagnon lumber crew.”
She stepped closer and pushed her glasses up her nose, studying the grainy photograph for a long moment.
“And this,” I steered her further down the hall, “was my great grandma, Celine. The love of his life and spirit of this place.”
It was a formal portrait, taken in her finery. Her hair was cropped short, and she wore a small hat and a fancy dress with a collar. Around her neck, displayed proudly, was the compass.
