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“Who the hell are you?” she asks again.
I raise both hands instinctively. “Whoa, take it easy . . .” Who is this pretty, fierce stranger wearing fuzzy slippers and a bathrobe? Definitely not Maggie, the manager. She’s on vacation with her husband in Aruba.
I take another cautious step forward to get a better look at her face.
She thrusts the poker toward me. “Don’t come any closer. I swear I’ll use this if I have to.”
“Hey, maybe I should be asking who you are,” I point out, utterly confused by this standoff over . . . coffee? Why is she doing this? Is she homeless and freeloading from the Harrises?
As I get closer, I recognize those big hazel eyes almost immediately. “Wait . . . Lou?”
She frowns, poker still aimed warily. “You people need to stop talking like you know me. I have no clue who you are.”
“What do you mean you don’t remember me, darling?” I give her my most roguish smirk. “I thought we shared something special once upon a time.”
Confusion spreads across her face, deepening her frown. “You definitely don’t know me,” she asserts, her grip on the poker tightening just slightly.
“Oh, but I do, Lou-Lou,” I say, laying on the charm thickly, leaning against the doorway with an ease that belies my pounding headache. “I can’t believe you don’t remember me. Was I that forgettable?”
ChapterSeven
Louanne
I stareat the hunky stranger smirking at me from across the room. He called me Lou-Lou—a nickname only my family and high school friends used. How the heck does the hot lumberjack guy know me? And where’s the requisite plaid shirt? The beard is there. He looks burly, strong, and . . . who exactly is he?
At least now I know who the owner is of the jacket and boots haphazardly left by the stairs last night.
Still, that doesn’t explain who he actually is or why he crashed here. Knightly assured me I had the entire place for a week or two. So, Hot Lumberjack here is definitely crashing without an invitation.
“If you don’t start talking, I’m calling the cops,” I double down, poker aimed with as much authority as I can muster.
Which, admittedly, isn’t much considering the guy’s got nearly a foot on me and is built like a sexy defensemen. If he wanted to, he could easily disarm me and use my body as a hockey stick. Maybe running away is the better plan here.
“Now, Lou, why would you sic the cops on little ol’ me?” He clutches his heart dramatically. “I thought we were close.” That infuriating smirk still plays at his stubbled mouth.
As I stare him down, I can’t help but notice how attractive he is in a rugged mountain man kind of way—all toned muscles under tanned skin, dark hair falling carelessly over his piercing blue eyes. He looks like he just walked off the pages of a magazine . . . He could have even been in one of those calendars. Mr. January.
Get it together, Lou. Finding this ruggedly handsome lumberjack sexy is the last thing I need right now.
“Who are you?” I demand, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
He touches his chest again, feigning hurt. “Your oversight wounds me deeply,” he says, though the grin never leaves his irritatingly perfect bearded face.
“I don’t care how wounded you feel, mister. Who. Are. You?” I punctuate each word with another jab of the poker.
His blue eyes crinkle with amusement at the corners. “Henrik. Who else were you expecting to encounter this fine morning, Lou-Lou?”
I frown, piecing it together. There’s only one Henrik I’ve ever known . . .
“Wait. Henrik, as in Paul’s friend Henrik?” I ask skeptically.
When I look into his eyes, recognition begins to dawn. I see that it is really him. Those blue eyes are almost the same, but they don’t have the same lightness they used to. Is it because he’s no longer the carefree guy I knew?
Growing up, I had the biggest crush on him. On those weekends he stayed over, we would meet in the kitchen at midnight, gobble stolen cookies from the pantry, and swap secrets over cold milk. He always listened so intently, like every piece of teen girl drama I shared was utterly fascinating instead of laughable.
He nods. “I see you remember my full name. Others use Henrik Émile Tremblay, but my favorite is Paul’s friend Henrik.” His gaze then drops to the poker still in my hand. “You might want to put that down.”
“How do I know you’re really Henrik? Got any proof?” I challenge, poker still aimed warily.
