I quickly grab a bottle of water to chase the awful concoction down my throat. “I hope I don’t regret that later.”
“You will,” she huffs, replacing the lid on the Tupperware and tossing it into the grass like it’s going to infect us if we sit too close to it.
Silence descends for a moment before I catch her gaze out of the corner of my eye, and then, in unison, we burst out laughing. Her face lights up as she covers her flaming red cheeks, and the knots in my stomach begin to unravel at the sound of her happy voice again. It gives me hope that we can move past the whole Friday night disaster and get back to normal.
“A for effort, Cozy.” I sigh, lifting my bottle of water up to her in a mock toast.
Her smiling eyes fall, and she blinks quickly before moving into a standing position.
“Where are you going?” I ask, looking up at her and trying not to stare at her legs.
She tugs on one of her braids and stammers, “To check on Everly.”
“I can do that.” I set my water down and stand.
“It’s my job, Mr. Fletcher,” she says crisply and then takes off, leaving me standing alone with the poisoned potato salad.
The scent of charred wood makes me horny.
Which is problematic because a large part of my charcuterie board design technique is to torch my boards with a weed burner. Burning helps the natural grain of the wood pop out, achieving a unique zebra stripe appearance to the boards once they’re finished. I used to use a smaller flame torch, but it would take me hours and I’d be dripping in sweat with cramps from hunching over by the time I was done. This torch has a three-foot pole and much larger flame, so it’s cut my burning time in half.
Plus, I feel like a badass when I’m operating it.
Who knew all that time I spent taking college courses as a young teenager would result in me finding my passion for making charcuterie boards of all things? Skills I achieved from doing 4-H projects with my father on the farm, not taught by a professor in a college lecture hall.
When I was a kid, my dad and I did all sorts of woodworking projects in the machine shed. Various shelves, cutting boards, benches, and stools. Some cheesy decorative items like snowmen and American flags that my mom still displays proudly in her home. We would enter them as 4-H projects in the county fair, and I’d always earn a blue ribbon and oftentimes, best of show.
My sister was the girlie daughter. She enjoyed baking and cooking with Mom, so her 4-H projects would be of the consumable variety.
In hindsight, I should have had a better balance between woodworking and kitchen projects because the putrid look on Max’s face when he sampled my potato salad earlier this week is burned into my memory. And the moment I realized that we were bonding over my failed attempt at a classic salad is when I knew I’d failed miserably at Dakota’s plan for me.
“Be aloof. Be unavailable. Don’t say much to him.”
Ugh, I should have gone to the coffee shop like I planned. But when Everly turned those baby blue eyes on me, I couldn’t say no. Plus, Max’s entire office was drenched in his intoxicating scent, and I could barely form a coherent thought, let alone come up with an excuse for why I shouldn’t go with them on their picnic.
Heavy sigh.
I’ve done a better job the rest of the week at avoiding him and acting indifferent. I even declined a dinner invite from him last night when Michael made too much homemade pasta. Saying no to fresh pasta about killed me. But I was in survival mode after what I had witnessed the other night.
When I stumbled upon Max…chopping wood.
Yep. That’s right. The millionaire really did chop his own wood. It wasn’t total bullshit. I nearly dropped my bag full of dill pickles that I had just picked up from the grocery store when I caught sight of him down by the creek. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel, even though it was a warm summer night. He had clear safety goggles on and was working in front of a large tree stump situated beside a log rack with rows and rows of freshly chopped wood.
I watched in awe as he bent over to pick up a giant log that looked much too heavy to manhandle. He grunted as he set it on his chopping station. Then he picked up the axe propped on a nearby tree, spread his legs, and inhaled a huge breath before winding the axe back and crashing it down on top of the wood.
I nearly came on the spot.
He would mumble curse words for every log that didn’t split open on the first swing. I know because I stood there watching for far longer than was appropriate. It was like a lumberjack fantasy and a Zaddy fantasy were having dirty sex in my brain, and I couldn’t walk away until they both had their happy ending.
He stacked the freshly chopped wood up in a wheelbarrow, and when he propped the axe up on the tree and bent over to push the wheelbarrow up to the house, he caught me standing there, staring at him.
I nearly tripped on my feet as I hurried off to my tiny house with my pickle jars clanking in my bag like a disgusting pervert who got off watching her boss swing an axe.
It was ridiculous. I’m a grown woman. Why is this man unnerving me so much? Surely, I’ve seen grown men chop their own wood before. I mean…not in person but on the internet and stuff.
And obviously, most fathers’ eyes light up when their children come running into their office to surprise them with a picnic lunch. That doesn’t make Max special. That doesn’t make him sexier than all the other single dads who look stupid hot in suits.
It makes him average. Max Fletcher is an average human.
Which is why it’s good I’m out here in the garage working on more charcuterie boards. It’s not the most exciting Friday night activity, but I need the distraction, and my vibrator is still in a time-out for misbehaving last week.
If only this smoky wood aroma didn’t remind me of Max.
Ugh. Now I’m sweating. Yes, I’m working with a flame so that could be the cause of it, but there is air-conditioning in here and a strong evening breeze coming in through the window I opened for ventilation. I’m afraid this sweat dripping down my chest has a lot more to do with the fire I feel for Max than the flamethrower in my hands. I wonder what his tongue would think of the under-boob sweat I’m currently rocking?
“What’s on fire?” a voice yells, causing me to jump out of my skin as I nearly drop my flamethrower on the concrete.
“Holy shit!” I exclaim, quickly recovering my grip on the dangerous tool. I bend over to shut the gas off and wait for the flame to go down. I place the long, hot tool on the sawhorse that’s holding my charcuterie board and push my safety goggles up on my head.
I turn around and have to remind myself to breathe because seconds ago, I was falling deep into yet another Zaddy fantasy. And now that fantasy is standing right in front of me.
I drink in the sight of a barefoot Max in faded jeans and a white T-shirt. His broad frame stretches the white fabric as his pecs rise with each intake of breath. My fingers itch to run through his sandy hair that looks soft and rumpled on top of his head. It’s my favorite look on him. Even better than the hot, tailored suit and side-swept hair. He looks like he was enjoying a quiet Friday night until I ruined it. I glance at the clock and see it’s almost ten, so I suspect Everly is in bed already.
“Nothing is on fire, I promise,” I reply, pressing a hand to my heart that’s still racing from the shock of his presence.