Hottie Lumberjack: A Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy

by Tawna Fenske

  “Surprise!”

  I jerk back, even though I was braced for it. But I wasn’t braced for all these people. Dozens of them, friends, family, neighbors. There’s Jade and Amber from next door, and Bree singing happy birthday at the top of her lungs with all her girlfriends gathered around like backup dancers. My brothers are scattered through the crowd, Sean next to Amber, James leaned against a wall apart from the crowd, holding a glass of wine like he’s at a dinner party. Jonathan’s on the other side of the room shooting lustful glances at one of Bree’s friends I haven’t met yet.

  I love everyone here, every single one of them, even the ones whose names I can’t remember. I love that I’m a part of something bigger, that I’ve found my place in the world after a fucking lifetime of looking. My heart swells like a fist that’s been smashed knuckles-first through a wall, and I stare at the crowd feeling like the luckiest bastard on earth.

  “Holy shit.” The words tumble out of me before I spot Libby at the edge of the room, Chelsea’s hands on her shoulders. She’s belting out happy birthday at the top of her lungs, complete with dance moves that put her Alice the Camel routine to shame.

  If I thought my heart couldn’t get any bigger, it just broke the fucking magnifying glass like that scene from the Grinch cartoon.

  And there. Right next to Chelsea is my mother.

  “Happy birthday, baby,” she says as the song winds down. She steps forward to throw her arms around my middle, squeezing so tight I hiccup. “I’m so glad I can quit hiding. Your brothers and sisters have been sneaking me around this place all day.”

  “Mom,” I murmur, hugging back as I breathe in the familiar smell of vanilla breath mints and lemon hand cream. The swelling in my chest is so fierce, so tender, that I can’t catch my breath.

  She pulls back and beams at me like she did when I won the fifth-grade spelling bee. “I can’t wait to catch up.” She casts a knowing smile at Chelsea and lowers her voice just a little. “I want to hear all about what’s happening in your life. Everything.”

  Something tells me Bree’s already taken care of that, but I don’t mind. I’m glad to have this out in the open. To know all my favorite females in the world have been hanging out together and enjoying each other’s company.

  “Mom.” My voice sounds weird and gravelly, so I clear my throat. “You’ve met Chelsea.” I stop myself before I can add something dumb like “my girlfriend.” We haven’t talked about labels yet, so I know not to go slapping them on in front of my mother. “And Libby,” I add as the girl extends her hand and tells my mom it’s nice to meet her. “Libby’s my friend, too.”

  Chelsea’s smile wobbles, or maybe that’s just Bree crashing into her from behind. “Oops, sorry.” Bree pulls Chelsea in for one of those long, rocking hugs, then releases her and moves on to my mom. “Betty, I can’t believe we pulled it off,” she says. “The dummy had no clue.”

  “True enough,” I admit, trying to catch Chelsea’s eye. She’s fussing with the bow on Libby’s ponytail, so now’s probably not the time to grab for her hand. “I’m impressed.”

  Bree grins and bumps my mom with her hip. “We’ve got mad skills,” she says. “You must have thought we’d forgotten?”

  I’d forgotten, but she already thinks I’m a dumbass, so I keep my mouth shut. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I say to all of them, but especially Chelsea. “Thank you.”

  She lifts her eyes then, and the warmth of her smile tells me I probably just imagined her funny expression a minute ago. “Happy birthday, Mark,” she says. “I’ll give you your present later.”

  Her voice is pitched with sweetness, so it’s probably not something dirty, though I never know with Chelsea. That’s what I love about her. The perfect mix of sweetness and sin, softness and sharp, sexy edge. I love all of it, every last drop.

  Did I mention I love her?

  The words are busting up out of my chest like an alien in the movies, which is probably the wrong damn image to have in mind when telling a woman I love her for the first time, so I keep my damn mouth shut.

  My sister grabs my arm. “Before I forget, Senator Grassnab might be stopping by.”

  All the blood leaves my brain. From the corner of my eye, I see Chelsea stagger, but Bree keeps talking like she hasn’t noticed a damn thing, and why would she? It’s not like she knows Chelsea’s secret.

  “…big event isn’t until tomorrow, but he came in a day early to enjoy some R and R before the big campaign launch,” Bree’s saying. “He’s at dinner with Mrs. Grassnab now, but I invited him to stop by and say hello.”

  I fumble for my voice, hoping I can shape it into some appropriate words instead of the ones flying around in my head.

  Fuck. Shit. Goddammit.

  Get her out of here.

  It takes everything in my power to keep my eyes off Chelsea, to not do anything that would alert my mom or Libby or Bree that a giant ball of what-the-fuck has just bowled through the room.

  I need to get her out of here.

  Reaching for Chelsea’s hand, I twine my fingers through hers. I need her to know I’ve got her back.

  She looks up at me with a smile that seems normal, but there’s panic in her eyes. Her hand trembles in mine, but her expression is perfectly composed. If I didn’t know her so well, I’d never guess anything’s wrong.

  “I’m going to take Libby over to the buffet for some food,” she says, ruffling her daughter’s hair. “We’re a little off our schedule, so we probably can’t stay too late.”

  Bless her little heart, Libby yawns. I know it’s not an act, since the kid has to be exhausted as hell, but she couldn’t have timed it better.

  “You sleepy, kiddo?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice normal.

  “No,” she says, covering another yawn. “Maybe just a little. But I can stay up late.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Chelsea says with a smile at my mother that says kids these days. “I think it would do us all some good to get back on track with a normal bedtime routine.”

  “You won’t hurt anyone’s feelings if you slip out early,” Bree assures her as she snags a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “You and Mark have plenty of time later for gifts.”

  My mother’s knowing smile says she knows damn well what my sister’s implying. But my mom is nothing if not gracious, so she stoops down to Libby’s level and smiles. “It’s tough when you’re the only kid at a party, huh? I run a preschool near Portland. Do you know where that is?”

  Libby scrunches up her forehead and nods. “That’s where the zoo is?”

  “Exactly,” my mother says. “I live right by there, and I just visited last week. They have a new baby owl hatchling there. Actually, I think he may have stowed away in my purse.”

  She reaches into the oversized bag slung across her body and pulls out a big-eyed, fuzzy plush bird. As she hands it over to Libby, the girl’s eyes go owllike in wonder.

  “That’s for me?”

  “It is,” my mom confirms. “What do you think you should name him?”

  Libby thinks about that. “Weird Owl Yankovic,” she says. “He can be friends with Long Long Peter.”

  “That sounds like a wonderful idea to me,” my mom says.

  My heart is knotted up in a big heavy ball, but I know I need to stay focused on the impending crisis. Sweet as this whole exchange is, Chelsea’s getting edgy. I can feel it in the way she grips my hand, in the way she keeps shooting glimpses at the door like she expects the senator to come barging through at any moment and point at her and Libby.

  “Know what Libby hasn’t seen yet?” I ask.

  Clutching the owl to her chest, Libby swivels her gaze to me. “What?”

  “The game room,” I say. “It’s got foosball and air hockey and video games and even a ball pit. There’s lots of other kids your age, too. Want to see it sometime?”

  “Yes. Yes yes yes yes!” Libby bounces with excitement, like this is the best damned day of her life
. Maybe it is. She looks at her mother. “Can we go, Mom?”

  “Let’s grab some food and then we’ll slip out.” Chelsea shoots me a grateful look. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Positive.” My mom and Bree are distracted talking with Libby about the merits of air hockey versus foosball, so I lean close enough that my beard brushes Chelsea’s ear. “You okay with leaving early?”

  She nods with a big, stiff smile screwed on tight. “Bree let me help with setup, so I got to meet everyone. Your mom is great.”

  I try not to react, but she must see something in my face. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I assure her. “My mom is great.”

  “But?”

  But she’s not known for clamming up the way the Bracelyn clan is. No wonder she never wanted to marry into the family. I steal a glance at my mom, wondering what she’s shared. If she’s told Chelsea anything that could send her stumbling into my cesspool of secrets.

  “But, nothing,” I say, keeping my damned mouth shut.

  She looks at me for a long time, like she’s watching for something she’s beginning to think might never actually happen. “You’re sure?”

  “Yep.” I clear my throat. “Now go on, have fun with Libby. I’ll see you back at the cabin?”

  “Sure,” she says, taking a step back.

  It’s the look on her face that twists the ball of my heart into a tighter knot. Hope, fear, and a bone-deep sadness I’m positive has nothing to do with the senator.

  Putting her hand on Libby’s back, she turns and walks away.

  Chapter 17

  CHELSEA

  I clock a solid twenty minutes at the party, practically choking on my virgin mojito every time the door opens.

  But I’m determined to make the rounds, to pretend everything’s totally normal, and I’m carefree and cheerful about Mark’s birthday instead of terrified my daughter’s sperm donor will come busting through the door demanding explanations.

  Austin eases my mind a little, catching my arm on my way out the door to murmur quiet assurances they’ve got an eye on Walter Grassnab. There’s no evidence yet, but he’s a person of interest, and that’s enough to have cops prowling the resort tonight.

  The game room is less than two hundred yards away, and I tow Libby across the lawn toward a cedar-sided structure marked Cottonwood Cabin. I’m breathless as we jog the paved path with the sun sinking behind us into a candy floss nest of clouds.

  “Ow. Mom, you’re squeezing my hand.”

  “Sorry, baby.” I loosen my grip and smile down at her. “Did you have fun at the party?”

  “It was good,” she says. “I like Grandma Bootie.”

  “Who?”

  “Mark’s mom,” she says. “She says all the kids at the preschool call her Grandma Bootie.”

  “Oh. That’s—sweet.”

  I ignore the painful stabbing in the center of my heart. Libby and my mother aren’t close. It’s tough to forge a relationship with a woman who refers to you as “Chelsea’s little accident.” Not that Lib’s ever heard that—I’ve made damn sure of it—but it goes without saying theirs isn’t a tender connection.

  But Mark’s mom is different. Warm and sweet and welcoming, she pulled me into a big hug before Bree had even finished introducing us. “Bree’s told me so much about you,” Betty exclaimed as she released me and smiled so big I could see her molars. “We’ve been chatting for months about the party, so I got to hear all about how you two got together.”

  So, Bree, not Mark, told his mom about me. I shouldn’t be surprised, or even disappointed. At least I’m not the only person he shuts out.

  Libby’s voice breaks through my noisy haze of uncertainty. “I love my owl,” she says as she hugs it to her chest.

  “He’s a great owl.” I push open the big wooden door and step into the foyer. The space is warm and bright, filled with children’s laughter and the smell of popcorn.

  Libby bounces beside me, revving her engine before she jets off toward the snack bar. She’s still clutching my hand, so I stumble along in her wake. “Mom, can I have cotton candy? Or Skittles? I need—”

  “You don’t need any more sugar.” I reel her in and redirect her toward a copper arrow marked “game room.” We pass another mom being yanked along by sticky-faced twin toddlers, and we share a smile of solidarity.

  “Where do you think we’ll find the ball pit?” I ask Lib.

  “This way!” Her gleeful enthusiasm lets some of the tension leak from my shoulders. As much as I liked the party, it’s good to escape the dread of running into Walter Grassnab.

  We turn down a corridor and keep following the copper signs. Libby’s buzzing with energy, courtesy of the massive slab of chocolate cake she gulped at the party. So much for an early bedtime.

  “Maybe after the ball pit we get cotton candy?” she asks.

  Gotta admire the kid’s persistence. “No dice, kiddo. You already had cake.”

  “But there’s still room in the sweets chamber of my tummy.”

  A delicate flutter under my breastbone reminds me these are Mark’s words, Mark’s influence on my little girl. Or maybe it’s the reminder that he’s let us into his world, at least a little.

  We round the corner into a room humming with activity. Arcade games beep and buzz as kids scamper around us shouting with excitement. There’s a fierce game of foosball happening on the other side of the room, and opposite that is the holy grail. The ball pit we’ve heard so much about. It’s teeming with plastic balls in red and green and blue, a rainbow-hued pool of pure joy. A pre-schooler with a buzz cut squeals and leaps like he’s jumping into a swimming pool.

  “Whoa,” Libby says.

  “No kidding. Pretty nice, huh?”

  “I wish we could live here forever.”

  “Here in this game room? Seems like it would be hard to sleep.”

  “Mom.” She rolls her eyes, giving me a glimpse of the teenager she’ll be before I know it. “With Mark. I think we should live with Mark forever.”

  There’s that twinge again, twin darts of hope and trepidation pinning my heart like thumbtacks.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’ve made that mistake before.

  I’m giving myself this silent pep talk when a pigtailed girl maybe a year younger than Lib bounds over sporting purple cowboy boots and a huge smile that showcases a missing front tooth. “I’m Tia, what’s your name?”

  “I’m Libby,” my daughter replies, fingers still clutching mine. “Do you live here?”

  “No, we’re on vacation,” Tia says. “Do you want to play?”

  “Okay.” Libby looks up at me with hope-filled eyes. “Mom, can I?”

  “Go for it. Have fun.” Lord knows she’s due for some peer interaction.

  “Come on.” Tia grabs my daughter’s hand and off they go, skipping toward the ball pit. There’s a teenager with a whistle around his neck standing guard at the edge of it, but I move closer anyway so I’m right there if she needs me.

  “She’s adorable.”

  I turn to see Mark’s mother approaching, her friendly smile arched wide across her pretty features. “So smart for her age,” she adds. “She counted to twenty for me in both English and Spanish.”

  “That sounds like Libby,” I tell her. “Thank you for the owl, by the way.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m just tickled Mark’s opened himself up to something new.”

  I’m not sure if she means me or Libby or relationships in general, but I nod like it’s true. “He’s a terrific guy. So supportive these last couple weeks.”

  Betty’s face creases with concern. “Bree shared some of what’s been happening to you. I’m so sorry.”

  There it is again. It’s Bree who’s told her about me, not Mark. Has he even said a word?

  “Do you and Mark talk often?” I ask cautiously.

  “Oh, every week. Such a good boy, always calling to ask what’s happening in my life.”

 
“And to share what’s happening in his?”

  She cocks her head, bemused. “Well, now. He did say he won ten dollars at poker night.”

  “That’s—something.”

  “It’s so nice he’s made friends,” she continues, turning her gaze back out over the ball pit where Libby’s poised to leap. “Mark always did like being part of a family, part of a community.”

  I file that information away in the brain folder that contains surprisingly few facts about Mark. It’s embarrassing how little I know about him.

  “He’s been terrific with Libby,” I tell her. “Very protective.”

  “He gets that from Cort. Not much of a father figure, but hell-bent on supporting his kids the best way he knew how. Mostly with money, I guess.”

  Yet another tidbit of information to tuck into my file, along with what I’ve picked up from Bree. How is it possible I’ve learned none of this from Mark himself?

  “I hope it’s okay I told Libby to call me Grandma Bootie,” she says, glancing back to me. “I didn’t want to overstep, but it’s what all the children call me.”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” I say. “Lib already adores you.”

  Betty smiles. “She invited me to come meet Long Long Peter. Said we could have a tea party with you and Mark and Weird Owl Yankovic.”

  “That’s Libby,” I say fondly. “Always the gracious hostess.”

  “She has excellent manners. You should be very proud.”

  I smile as I watch my daughter usher a smaller child in front of her in line, making sure he’s steady on his feet before she takes her place. “I got pretty lucky.”

  “It’s not luck. I work with kids for a living, and I know good parenting when I see it.”

  Something warm flickers in the center of my chest, surprising me with an accompanying pinprick of tears. I blink hard so Betty won’t see. “Thank you.”