Lumbersexual (Novella) Read online

  I followed her to our room, leaving the rest to hang in the living room. Unzipping my duffle bag, I unpacked my shorts and jeans and put them in the battered 1970s wooden dresser she’d reserved for me. Tanks and tees and undies put away. Shoes shoved under the bed. Emma took my toiletries into the bathroom, and I unrolled my sleeping bag on top of the mattress and positioned my pillow, giving it a little pat.

  Home sweet home.

  “Have you been to the big trees yet?” she asked, sitting on her bed.

  “No, I’ve never seen them.” I pointed to myself. “Botany major here. I can’t wait.”

  “Oh em gee, they are so huge.”

  “That’s what she said.” A male voice came booming into our room from the hallway.

  Emma and I looked at each other and burst into laughter. “So it’s gonna be like that is it?” I called.

  “Yep,” said Ian from Idaho, who was now officially designated a flirt.

  I snorted. “Perv.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  That was true.

  Wanting to rest from my drive, I threw myself onto the bed, still wearing my tennis shoes, hoping for comfort.

  Ugh. Lumpy.

  Well, it felt better than the ground. Emma looked at me in sympathy. “I know you’re the last one here, so you drew the short straw, but honestly, none of the other beds is any better.”

  “It just depends on who is in there with you,” called Ian.

  “Sexual harassment much?” I called back.

  “Absolutely.”

  I laughed and then groaned and turned over. Oh dear. I mean, he was cute, but not for me. Friend-zoned immediately.

  I’d learned. Unless there was a chance at a welcome fling, I always friend-zoned them before they friend-zoned me.

  “I’m going to go make the dip.” Emma got up and left, and I followed, not wanting to be antisocial. I helped her grate cheese and cut tomatoes, wondering who I’d meet at the party and whether they’d like me—and wanting to make sure to stay away from the ones with the reputations. Soon we were ready to go.

  Ian drove the ugly van that loitered in the driveway. (I had properly matched the other cars to their owners—the red Mazda to peppy Emma, the cool truck with blue-haired Katie, and the vintage mobile to efficient Matt.) At first glance, I thought that the van bumper had an iconic “Don’t Mess with Texas” sticker on it. But then I looked at it again, and realized that Ian had cut out the letters, rearranged them, kept the Texas flag, and now it spelled “Eat Domestic Pets.”

  So Matt and Ian being roommates could be interesting.

  “Yes, she’s uncool, except everyone can ride all at once,” he said. “So get in her.”

  “That’s what she said.” I smirked.

  All of us piled into his van, which smelled like motor oil and smelly socks. But we all fit, along with five six-packs of beer, four bags of tortilla chips, and Emma’s dip.

  The sun stayed high above the horizon on this mid-June evening. Bouncing along to a radio station playing dance music that didn’t match the grandeur of the woods at all, we made it to the main highway. Then across the river, right on a side street, and down another narrow road to a cluster of cabins that appeared to be opposite ours, but on the other side of the river.

  Ian parked. We looked out the windows. Music thumped and people danced on picnic tables outside.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  Okay. Not so quiet on this side of the river.

  We escaped the magical mystery van and ambled up to the crowded party as a posse.

  “Tickets,” mock-demanded a woman with her hand on her hip, standing at the door. Although her lips remained tight, she gave us a smile with her golden brown eyes.

  Emma gravely showed her the pink-printed invitation with one hand while balancing her seven-layer dip on her hip with the other.

  The gatekeeper relented.

  “Kristy, this is Maggie, our new housemate and your new employee.”

  “Charmed,” she said, grinning at us for real. “Make yourself at home. My wife, Helen, is around here somewhere. Remember. No feeding yourself.”

  We walked into the boisterous party, with people packed in as thick as the pine trees outside. Katie handed me a beer bottle and introduced me to Kristy’s wife, Helen.

  I looked at the table spread with food. While everyone had apparently read the rules on the invitation, almost everyone had chosen to make it as difficult as possible to eat without plates, silverware, or feeding yourself. The table groaned with spaghetti, chili, soup, pudding, and all kinds of food that was almost impossible to eat without those things. My mouth dropped open with how ridiculous it was. Emma’s chips and dip and a platter of cut-up raw veggies looked like salvation.

  Kristy told us the rules meant that you couldn’t hold your own drink, either, so Emma held my beer for me. I gave her a chance to not spill it all over my chin as she tipped it into my mouth. She failed. So much for relying on her. It was more trouble than it was worth, so for sanitary reasons, I decided I wasn’t drinking much tonight. I fed Matt carrot sticks and asked him about his roadkill diet—I was grilling him for recipes now, both repulsed and curious. He pointedly refused to feed me any dip because it wasn’t vegan, but I wasn’t hungry anyway. Especially not after learning how to cook a chipmunk.

  All around me, couples were licking chocolate pudding off of each other’s hands, downing pasta fed one by one into open bird-like mouths, even cupping soup into each other’s faces.

  It was the most unsanitary party I’d ever been to. And the most physical—forced to touch another person to be able to eat or drink.

  With a bang like breaking ice, a bottle crashed to the floor, spilling beer, and everyone quieted for a moment until someone yelled, “Party foul!” The noise rushed back into the party the way water fills up the shore, but no one moved to clean up the shards and liquid.

  Someone had to.

  I hustled and grabbed a towel from a bathroom, and ran into Helen returning with a broom and dustpan. Together, we wiped down the floor. Then I found a laundry room for the towel, came back, and joined the party. Kristy introduced me to rangers and interns, restaurant staff and maintenance crew—all of them feeding each other—and I talked with her and Emma about my job. She told me that every employee went through orientation so that they would know all about the park if a visitor asked, so I’d spend some time at first basically being paid to be a tourist. I turned to shake hands with yet another intern, wary of hand cleanliness, and set down my beer.

  And then I saw him.

  Clear, pale blue eyes with a touch of green. Light brown hair overgrown on top and shaved on the sides. A jaw at right angles. A narrow, upturned nose. High, cut cheekbones.

  And a beard.

  Fuck me, the beard.

  He wore a dark blue, plaid flannel shirt, arms rolled up, over a white t-shirt. Prominent veiny forearms covered in colorful tattoos. Broad shoulders. Tall. Dark wash jeans, not too loose, over muscled thighs and narrow hips. Brown leather boots. He leaned against the kitchen counter across the room, a sex god on display.

  I . . . yes . . . um . . . well. Even my thoughts stuttered as I gazed at him, pretending that I wasn’t.

  Emma shoved my arm. “Were you listening?”

  “Totally,” I said, lying.

  He stood away from the crowd, aloof and alone, taking a long pull from a Budweiser in a bottle, blatantly ignoring the silly rules of the party. I tried to look away. I tried really hard. I failed.

  Then he noticed me.

  His eye twitched and his brows furrowed together. Then he gave me the sexiest smirk and a chin lift.

  I turned away hastily and tuned back into the conversation with Kristy and Emma. As they talked about the schedule for walks in the giant sequoia grove and possible topics for presentations at campfires over at the Wawona campground (in between feeding each other chips and dip), I kept sneaking glances at him. I couldn’t help but notice how Paul Bunyan’s
hiking-strong legs looked in his jeans, the way his big, rugged hand grasped the neck of his beer bottle, the pop of a vein on the side of his neck.

  He caught my eye again, this time without the chin lift, unblinking. Then he raised an eyebrow.

  One.

  Jeez.

  Kristy looked the direction I’d been looking, licked sour cream from her lip, and raised a matching eyebrow. “That’s Courtney Thompson. He’s worked here for years. Interpretive ranger.”

  “What kind of name is Courtney for a guy?” I accidentally mused out loud.

  “Girlie name.” She paused and gave me a knowing look. “Not a girlie guy. Watch out for him. He’s . . . got a reputation.”

  “What for?”

  “Getting the panties off the seasonal staff. One by one.”

  I laughed. My immediate thought was that I wanted him taking mine.

  But then I thought about it, and of course this put the damper on things. He had to be the notorious one Emma mentioned. Better to ignore him, even though that was currently hard. “Casual guy, huh?”

  She nodded, chewing on a chip.

  “Let me have another sip of my beer,” I said to Emma and handed it to her. As I opened my mouth to take a drink, I closed my eyes, but instead of getting the bitter taste of beer, I tasted spaghetti sauce.

  “What the hell?” I spluttered and opened my eyes, indignant.

  Ian, weaving slightly, smelling like alcohol, and holding a meatball, slurred, “Thought you’d like something meaty.”

  Before I could say that I’d rather eat roadkill, I heard the low growl of the sexiest voice I’d ever heard.

  “She doesn’t.”

  Courtney Thompson stood next to me, glaring at Ian.

  Ian side-hugged me around the shoulders and looked up to Lumberjack like a squat bulldog facing off against a sleek—and huge—German Shepherd. “Have you met our new roommate, Maggie?” I turned and glowered at him, and he dropped his arm.

  Then I turned to get a better look at my rescuer. Close up? He looked even better, his eyes like blue-green beach glass, his cheekbones jutting. He radiated an intensity I’d never experienced before, with a stare that made me just want to hand him my undies and damn the consequences. Reputation or not.

  Courtney Thompson scowled at Ian, who took a step back. Then Grizzly Adams looked me up and down, gave me a half-grin, stuck out a hand, and said, “Court. Nice to meet you.” I shook it, grateful for getting out of eating messy food and wishing I could hold his clean hand for a long time. I liked the way our hands looked joined together, and thought that the contrast between his tattoos on his arms and my smooth skin was intriguing.

  And talking with him? His voice was the most attractive deep, raspy voice I’d ever heard, the kind of voice you imagined a bear would have if it became human. Not in the shifter sense, but ursine in a manly-man way.

  I managed to politely say, “You too. I’m Maggie Washington.” But that was difficult.

  Goddammit, he was another one of those guys who made me stupid. I could tell. Normally I had the ability to speak and think in English, and occasionally other languages, like Latin plant names. But he immediately scrambled my wiring and now I was only aware of this magnetism, this pull towards his face and body. My brain hurt.

  I glanced away and then back at him and realized that I was looking at his crotch. Eyes up, Maggie.

  He caught my eye, and his gaze was thoughtful. “That’s cool you helped clean up.”

  I cocked my head. “No problem. I’m helpful.” Four more words out of my mouth. Yes.

  “You just took care of things. That’s the way to do it. This your first summer in the park?”

  I nodded. “You?”

  “Fifth.” The look on my face, probably one of doing mental math, seemed to encourage him to keep talking. “I started when I was eighteen.” He looked around the party and then back to me. “Love it here.”

  And then he smiled that goddamned panty-dropping smile. The one that hit me in the solar plexus and drew me to him like gravity. It made me want him to show me the designs of each and every one of his tattoos. And all the other parts of him.

  He lit a brushfire in my body, blazing across my skin, through my very blood, warming me up in a way I’d never felt before.

  How long had it been since I’d been kissed?

  Since I’d done anything more than kissing?

  Since I’d been with any guy doing anything?

  Long enough that he’d immediately eradicated any memory of them, that’s for sure.

  “I think I will, too. I can’t wait to see the waterfalls and Half Dome—”

  “What?” he interrupted me.

  “I haven’t seen—”

  “You’re that new?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s unacceptable.” He narrowed his eyes at me, but they stayed bright.

  Was he mad at me or was he just messing with me? Court was hard to read. Also distracting. With really, really mesmerizing eyes.

  Ian looked at both of us and burped. “I, uh, need to go to talk to Matt.” Flustered by Tattoo Man, I’d forgotten that Ian was standing there, and apparently so had Court. Judging by how Ian wobbled, I knew I’d be the one to drive us home. With a strange look on his face, Ian took off. Court’s beard hid what I thought was a twitch in his cheek.

  Finally, I spoke. “I just got here today. It will take hours to do the tourist thing. I’ll go as soon as I can. I want to see it so badly. Give me a break.”

  Court shook his head. “No way. No breaks. Top priority.”

  “I will. Sheesh.” Then I had a flirty idea. Maybe he’d be good for some fun this summer. I could do casual. It would be better than what I had been doing, which was not much. Even if he was a fuckboy, maybe I needed a fuckboy.

  Gathering my courage, I challenged him with what I hoped was a smile and not a grimace, and I wrapped a curl of my hair around my finger. “Let’s go now. You can be my tour guide.”

  He looked at me hard, but I saw something in his striking eyes. Like he was fighting with himself. “I can’t.”

  And just like that I was friend-zoned.

  Dammit.

  He did it to me before I could do it to him. I’d misinterpreted.

  Like always. Maggie, our best bud. The one to hang with, but who never fit in.

  Then I started giving myself a talking-to. Not twenty-four hours in a new place and I was already obsessed with the wrong guy. I knew better than that.

  Unfortunately, this was typical behavior for me. Since my high school boyfriend broke up with me to go to college, for the past four years, my M.O. was to crush hard on guys in class and misread the signals, only to learn that they weren’t interested in me that way.

  Examples:

  One. A dark haired hottie in Statistics, the one who deejayed at the campus radio station and dressed like he was in the city, not a podunk college town. When he smiled at me, I thought he liked me. I made sure to sit so that I would have him in view, if not right next to him. Weeks went by of us smiling at each other. But when he finally spoke to me, he’d asked if he could borrow a pencil. And nothing else after that.

  Two. A Prince Harry lookalike, who did pull-ups at the gym like he was lifting the weight of a single dry leaf. For months, he’d talked to me after I swam my laps. And I thought it was only a matter of time before he wanted to go get pizza and beer.

  He’d just wanted to know if I had the English Literature assignment.

  And so on. I always fell completely for my crushes. I always wanted more. I’d give them anything, anything to talk to them. Let them borrow my car, copy my notes, use my laptop.

  But the guys I was into weren’t into me. And the ones who were into me, I wasn’t into.

  So was I doing it again?

  Yep.

  Guys either saw me as a friend or a fling. Nothing more.

  It was clear how he saw me.

  Bitter disappointment crashed over me and my cheeks
burned, embarrassed for getting shut down so fast. I opened my mouth to apologize for asking, or to distract him with a joke, but he cocked his head to the side and said, “You drinking?”

  “A little.”

  “Grab a beer and come outside.” Not a request. I felt his voice go down my spine and lodge deep inside me, and found myself compelled to do what he said.

  I went over and grabbed a bottle of Rolling Rock, and tried to gather my thoughts, but it was difficult given how much he smelled like a male body wash ad on TV.

  Not that you can smell an ad on television.

  You know what I mean.

  What was it with this guy? I was smart and I prided myself on making up my own mind—like my decision to study botany—even if currently I was stuck in a bit of a now what do I do? I didn’t like being ordered around. Especially not by a guy who’d been with everyone.

  But this guy? The gruff way he talked? I liked it. I immediately liked him.

  He seemed older than he was, because of the confident way he held himself and his ready command of the room. Even though he came off as the classic loner, he was at ease with the party and everyone around us. Popular, too, with people trying to catch his eye.

  But he focused on me, ignoring them and reading me with his clear eyes.

  I really liked the attention.

  Even if it was for just a beer.

  “It stays light so late now, this time of year,” I said aloud, but to myself. “Almost sunset.”

  Holding the kitchen door open for me, he said, “That’s what I want you to see.” I stepped past him, and resisted the urge to brush against him, to feel how his flannel felt against my cheek. Or that beard.

  Bad idea.

  We stepped outside to a cleared area under the trees with a fire pit surrounded by felled logs. I picked the most comfortable looking one to sit on. He wandered over to a pile of wood and started pulling small sticks for kindling and stacking them by the fire circle.

  “Want a drink?” he asked. “Play by the rules?”

  “Sure.”

  He dusted off his hands and took the bottle out of mine.

  Here we go again.

  Gently, looking me in the eyes, he tilted the bottle, gauging my reaction so I didn’t get too much.