Hotbloods (Hotbloods #1)(9)

Angie sat up straighter in her chair. “On the other side of the cornfields?”

Mr. Churnley nodded. “Mhm,” he replied, finishing his water.

“But we have no neighbors on that side!” Mrs. Churnley exclaimed. “Not for miles.”

Her husband rose to his feet. “Well, there’s a fence being built as we speak. I’m going to go see what’s up.”

Angie looked at me and Lauren, and I could tell what she was about to ask from the expression on her face. “Can we come with you?”

“‘Course you can,” Mr. Churnley replied, heading out the door.

We followed him, leaving Mrs. Churnley behind to finish her meal.

“Do you think…” Angie began as we walked across the yard toward the truck, a few steps behind Mr. Churnley.

“That the lumberjacks are building a fence?” Lauren finished, her dark brows raised.

Angie shrugged.

“This is all so weird,” I said.

We had yet to even lay eyes on these mythical lumberjacks, so before we mulled over the strange twist of events any further, that was the first step—find out if they actually existed.

We piled into the truck, and Mr. Churnley drove us down the track toward the forest. As the new fence came into view, my eyes widened. When Mr. Churnley had reported that a fence was being built, I’d figured perhaps a dozen feet or so would have been set up by now, given that there had been nothing standing there at all yesterday. Instead, I found myself staring at a fence that must have spanned at least a mile in circumference, cornering off a large enclosure of the forest.

“How on earth—” I paused as three tall figures came into view, surrounded by strips of wood. The men must have been at least six feet in height, and they… definitely matched Angie’s description. They were shirtless, the sun beating down on their bronzed skin, and held tools in their hands—a hammer and nails, while one of them held an axe aloft over his shoulder.

They went still, staring at us, as we trundled toward them.

Mr. Churnley sped up. “Hey, fellas!” he called out of his open window, the sound carrying clearly through the noiseless afternoon.

He pulled the truck to a stop a few feet in front of them, and as we all tumbled out of the vehicle, I laid eyes on the strangers—all apparently in their early twenties—properly for the first time.

The man holding the axe, who was also the tallest by about an inch, stole my attention first, and it took my brain a few moments to process his appearance. His eyes reminded me of winter, twin whirlpools of harsh steel and ice blue, while everything else about him screamed pool parties and picnics on the beach.

His sun-kissed skin had a radiant glow to it, and his hair was black, cropped close at the sides in an almost military style. He wore black pants that hugged him low around the waist, exposing a chest that was clearly the product of years of wielding axes. It belonged to a swimsuit model, a perfect canvas of sculpted pecs and abs… except for the scars that criss-crossed it, one even extending over his heart. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of terrible accident had caused those. His strong jawline also bore a scar.

I suddenly realized his gaze was on me and I had been gawking way too long. I quickly looked away, glancing toward his two companions. The man to his right was probably his brother. His hair was of the same color and style, and though his eyes were less steely and closer to sapphire, there were other marked similarities in the shape of their lips and broad facial structure.

The third man, the shortest of the three (though by no means short), had fairer features, with long blond hair tied back in a ponytail and pale brown eyes.

“Dang,” Lauren breathed, voicing my general thoughts appropriately.

It even seemed to take Mr. Churnley a minute to collect himself, his eyes bugging slightly as he eyed them, before he cleared his throat, seeming to remember what we’d all come here for.

“Good afternoon! I’m Geoffrey—Geoffrey Churnley—and I’m from the other side of the field, Elmcreek Farm. Are you our new neighbors?”

The taller man’s slate eyes rested on Mr. Churnley, and he nodded. “Not exactly, sir. We are here to work.” His low voice rumbled up from the depths of his chest, and it was… definitely not Texan. I couldn’t put my finger on what the accent was exactly. It was neutral and clear but had a slight foreign twang, almost British but… not. I wasn’t great at discerning accents anyway, given how little I’d traveled. Maybe he was an immigrant.

“Oh, I see,” Mr. Churnley replied. “And what sort of work are you doing here?”

“We’ve been hired to renovate the old farmhouse within this patch of woodland,” the man replied, his expression stoic and his eyes wandering casually to the fence. “We won’t be staying long.”

“Is the owner planning to move here, then?” Mr. Churnley asked.

The man shrugged, still avoiding direct eye contact. “We wouldn’t know, sir. We’re simply here to do a job.”

“Aha, naturally,” Mr. Churnley murmured, squinting in the sunlight as he took in the length of the fence. “You sure put this up quick.”

The man gave him a faint, perfunctory smile that told me he was quite done with the conversation. It seemed Mr. Churnley picked up on it too.

With the three of them working together, I guessed it was possible to put up a fence that fast—especially with a team as fit as this one. Not that I had any experience putting up fences…