Page 32 of Grumpy Bear

Luke’s mouth dropped open. “For real?”

“Yeah. The Jackolympics.” I grinned. “Jim films them breaking down trees and posts it on social media as content marketing.”

He chuckled. “That’s… kinda brilliant.”

I shrugged. “It brings in a small crowd during an otherwise slow month.” Turning back to the task at hand, I pointed to a zero turn Toro TimeCutter with handlebars. “Think you can handle one of these?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I started driving a tractor when I was seven.”

“Didya grow up on a farm?”

“Nah, not really. Big house in the country in Alabama. We did have some horses, but what we called the front yard was actually seven acres. I used to mow it every few weeks. It was a helluva lot bigger than this.”

Maybe he was more than he seemed. “Let me show you what I need you to do then, Tractor Cowboy.”

I set Luke up with a mower and showed him where he could get gas with a code. We had our own mini filling station on the backside of the garage. I took off on a matching machine to the far edge of the clearing. It was about the size of a football field with our bonfire area in the center. Presently, the pyre was a jagged wooden sculpture. The base was shaggy with a mixture of twigs, hay, and newspaper. The lumberjacks would be beefing it up considerably with the debris from the storm.

The sun was high enough over the mountain to bake the valley floor and the trailer park, even though the lodge and the cabins in the hills were still enjoying morning shade. Luke was probably realizing right about now why our staff T-shirts were gray and not black. I stripped down before sweat could start pouring off me.

Sure enough, ten minutes in, he was stopping to peel off his shirt and mop his face with it. Watching the sunshine highlight the sweat on his upper body, I was grateful for the distance. It was at least a little easier to focus on the job.

We worked our way back toward the park from opposite ends. I was pleasantly surprised he matched my pace. His wheel tracks were perfectly parallel to mine as well. The only other time anybody had ever helped me mow, the guy had still been drunk from the night before, and I’d had to go back over his work. After I fired him.

Wayne always said he’d paid for the mowers so somebody else could drive them.

I’d discovered over time that a strong work ethic was one of the most attractive qualities a man could have.

Even though I couldn’t hear over the engine’s roar, I could tell Luke was singing at the top of his lungs. When he sang, his facial expression was that same regal, arrogant look he had when he was sleeping. He looked confident and powerful when he sang, so different from the easygoing hippie who tended to babble and smile as a kind of camouflage.

Luke was drinking water and rummaging through the back of the UTV when I pulled up and cut the engine. “Is it cool if I use this sunscreen?” he asked.

I hopped off the mower, slid my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose, and pressed a finger into the skin above his shoulder blade, overly conscious it was the only time I’d intentionally touched him since I’d shaken his hand when we’d met in the lodge. “Shit. You’re burning, aren’t you?”

The shorts I’d lent him were soaked with sweat and starting to ride low, hanging off his hips. His wet happy trail trickled down to tufts of pubic hair peeking out above the waistband.

“Give me that.” I snatched the bottle of SPF 30 out of his hands. “That’s not going to cut it for your fair ass.” I tossed him a spray can of SPF 75, and he looked relieved when he caught it.

He stepped away so the spray wouldn’t hit me. “You know not to ever get this spray shit on your sunglasses, right? It ruins the lenses.”

I took my aviators off and shoved them into a pocket. “Thanks for the tip.”

I watched him attempt to spray himself. He went up and down his arms a few times, then closed his eyes and held his breath so he could mist his face. “You want some?”

I held up a hand. “I’m good. I have a permanent tan at this point.”

Then he bent over and pointed the nozzle so the spray arced vaguely down his spine and toward his shoulders.

“Stop.”

He startled. “What?”

“Come over here.” I motioned with a couple of fingers, bossing him around like a child. “Just let me.” Shit. Was I doing this? Was I really going to put my hands all over him? He was going to think I was looking for excuses to touch him. But better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right? So, instead of explaining, I grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him around, and began scraping my hands across his shoulders and down his back. “You gotta rub this into the skin or it’s not going to work right.”

I tried my hardest not to be too sensual about it, but it was next to impossible—the glide of the oil, the contrast of my work-roughened hands against his smooth skin, the intimate sight of the nearly invisible fine hair at the base of his spine…

I carefully rubbed the oil into his shoulders where he needed the most coverage, aware that he could surely feel my breath on the back of his neck.

He had gone quiet and limp, swaying a little, his chin dropped toward his chest.