There’s an odd sort of teddy bear quality to the guy, if teddy bears had massive biceps and broad shoulders and sharp pieces of weaponry in their paws.

     He catches me staring and sets the axe down beside my display case, leaning it against his thigh. That’s huge, too. Everything about this guy is enormous, so why do I feel more turned on than terrified?

     The guy clears his throat. “I’m supposed to order two dozen cupcakes for a bunch of tour operators from—”

     “I’m sorry, why do you have the axe?”

     He cocks his head, genuinely perplexed. “For chopping wood.”

     For fuck’s sake. “I mean why did you bring it into a cupcake shop?”

     I’m no longer worried he’s here to lop my head off, but still.

     He stares at me for a few beats, not answering, not blinking, not even smiling. Not that I could tell, what with the thick beard masking any sort of expression. But I can see his lips, which are full and soft and—

     “Sharp.”

     I blink. “What?”

     “The axe,” he says. “Had to get it sharpened.”

     “So you brought it to a cupcake shop?”

     The corners of his mouth twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “No, I brought it to the shop down the street. Didn’t want to leave it in the truck because the doors don’t lock. Safety hazard.”

     “Oh.” That actually makes sense.

     Sort of. If this is really Bree Bracelyn’s brother, he’s a freakin’ gazillionaire. Not that any of the siblings in that family act like it, but it’s common knowledge the Bracelyn kids inherited a lot more than their dad’s ranch when he died.

     Suffice it to say, Hottie Lumberjack could afford a truck that locks.

     “Chelsea Singer,” I tell him, wiping a hand on my pink and green striped apron before offering it to him. “I own Dew Drop Cupcakes.” As an afterthought, I add, “And I’m not an axe murderer.”

     His mouth definitely twitches this time. “Mark Bracelyn. Ponderosa Resort. Also not an axe murderer.”