Hot Axe (Axford Brothers #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

AMES

“Okay, but you’re literally allergic to raspberries.” I don’t look up from the chanterelles I’m sautéeing, though my grip’s tight enough to make the pan handle squeak. “Why on earth would you get a raspberry wedding cake?”

Outside, the March wind’s blowing across Winsome, Vermont, battering against the dark windows of my apartment over Watchfire. But here in my kitchen, which permanently smells like woodsmoke from the restaurant below, everything’s cozy and delightful.

Or it would be, if the man I love would stop freaking discussing his wedding to someone else.

“Because I won’t actually eat the cake,” my best friend explains.

Robbie says this like it’s an obvious, logical solution. Like every aspect of the picture he’s painting—from his fiancée’s cake flavor choice, to Robbie’s reaction, to the fact that Robbie’s marrying Lissa in the first damn place and insists on telling me about it —isn’t maddeningly wrong.

I glance over at him. He’s kneading bread dough with one huge hand like a professional, but somehow, he’s managed to dust his cheek with flour. I can’t help but roll my eyes as I rub it away with my thumb.

“That makes no sense, Rob. None.”

“It does, though.” Serious green eyes meet mine. “Lissa’s folks had raspberry cake at their wedding, and they’ve been together thirty-plus years. It’s a family tradition.”

“Hmm.”

I wonder if Lissa knew invoking the word family was the equivalent of whispering abracadabra to Robbie Wojcik.

But what am I thinking? Of course she knew. She’s read my Robbie like a book since the moment they started dating… precisely three hundred twenty-nine days ago.

Not that I’m counting.

I shake my pan and set it back on the burner with more force than necessary. Not quite a bang. More of an enthusiastic rattle. “So while everyone else eats cake at your wedding reception, you’ll… what? Nibble a dinner roll?”

Robbie studies my face like he’s trying to suss out the reason for my bad attitude, to which I say good fucking luck, Robert .

The man’s pretty adept at reading people’s emotions.

He knows when I’m tired, stressed, or hangry before I do.

But even though it feels like half of Winsome knows I’m in love with him, Robbie’s never clued in.

Which is the closest thing to a miracle I’m likely to experience.

“It’s one day, Amesie. I truly don’t mind if I don’t have cake. You know that.”

“Yeah, Rob.” I sigh and turn my gaze back to my pan. “I know.”

And I do.

Robert Donovan Wojcik is practically perfect .

I’m not talking physical perfection, though his six feet and seven-excessive-inches of muscles, his pretty eyes, and his dimple are damn devastating.

I’m talking soul-deep goodness. Intelligence.

Kindness. Generosity. All those higher qualities that keep a fire burning long after the lust has flared and died.

And no, this isn’t me being blinded by love.

Ask anyone in Winsome, and they’ll tell you how amazing Robbie is.

Old ladies want to pinch his cheeks, dude bros want to be his pal, little kids want to hold his hand.

And Robbie gives the people what they want because it genuinely makes him happy to see other people happy.

But the very trait they adore about him is gonna drive me batshit one of these days—watch it happen—because I wish Robbie would give as much of a shit about doing what makes him happy.

“It’s no big,” I repeat. I turn back to my mushrooms, flipping them with perhaps more violence than fungi require or enjoy. “Just like it’s no big that Lissa wants the reception at her father’s country club. Just like it’s no big that she doesn’t want your brother in the wedding party.”

“Hey now.” He bumps my arm. “ You’re the one who said to cut Mike out of my life, or at least stop telling you about him. Since when do you defend him?”

Ugh . Since never. I loathe Robbie’s deadbeat brother. I loathe how he manipulates Robbie, and that Robbie keeps letting it happen. Bringing him up is a sign of just how desperately jealous and unkind I’ve become. Enemy of my enemy and all that.

Not that Lissa’s actually my enemy.

“Not defending him,” I mutter. “I just think Mike should be disinvited from being a groomsman because you want him to be. Because you choose not to associate with him anymore. Not because Lissa decided.”

“Yeah, well.” Robbie clears his throat. “Does it matter who said it first?”

Yes , I want to say . Yes, it fucking does. Be the bad guy for once, Rob. Take a stand.

The kitchen falls into silence, broken only by the buttery sizzle of the mushrooms in the pan and the vent hood’s whir. I feel the weight of Robbie’s gaze as he attempts to peer inside my brain.

Thank fuck he can’t actually read my mind because there’s stuff in there I don’t want him to know about. Pettiness. Lurid fantasies. A catalog of Robbie in Swim Trunks, 2014-2023.

It’s a lot.

Robbie dusts his hands, covers the bread to rise, and levers himself onto the butcher block—a health code violation I’d murder anyone for downstairs, but up here, best friend privilege applies. It doesn’t hurt that his position puts his thick thighs directly in my line of sight.

“This is nice, huh? Just us, hanging.” Robbie rubs his knee, getting traces of flour on his jeans. “We haven’t gotten to do this in a while. You’ve been so busy spending time with your new?—”

“Hold up. Is your knee bugging you?” I demand. “Why didn’t you say? I still have that bottle of arnica gel in the bathroom. And I’ll run drill tomorrow—” I’m already setting down my spoon and taking a step toward the bathroom when Robbie grabs my arm and pulls me back.

“Bullshit, you will. New volunteers starting this week, remember? You’ll scare ’em off. ”

“Pfft.” I shrug off his arm for… reasons. “I’m a fucking delight.”

He laughs.

“Been trying to scare you off for, what, sixteen years? And here you still are , ” I mutter.

“Terrified the whole time.” He winks. “Anyway, I’ll be curious for you to meet the probies. Herzog’s a solid guy. Greene…” He hesitates.

“Uh-oh.”

“No. Not that serious. Just… thinks he’s god’s gift to firefighting because he did well on his SCBA course. You know the kind?”

I snort as I garnish the mushrooms with chopped rosemary. “He’ll get that knocked out of him pretty quick.”

Or he’ll leave , I think but don’t say.

I’ve been part of Winsome’s mostly volunteer fire crew for eleven years, just like Rob.

He went full-time almost right away, made it his career, and became chief, so I guess technically , he has more training than I do and maybe a tiny bit more experience.

But I’ve worked with enough guys to know that the ones who stick aren’t the ones who joined for the ego stroke.

“Could be probie nerves,” Robbie says, ever the optimist. “I’m thinking eventually I’ll pair you up with him?—”

I turn and glare. “Why do I get the mouthy one? Is this how we treat our friends, Robert?”

He grins. “It is when your friend’s favorite hobby is chewing up mouthy probies and spitting them out as team players.” He grips the front edge of the countertop and adds solemnly, “This is a gift I’m giving you, Ames.”

“Hard pass. Last time you had me buddy up to a probie, he thought I was interested in him, remember? ”

Robbie laughs, deep and long. “Poor Delphi didn’t get to grow up hearing Professor Ames Axford’s lectures on allyship. Rule One: Sorry, Straight Boy, Not Every Gay Man Is In Love With You.”

I feel my face heat. “Yeah. Well. It’s true.”

Though perhaps not in every case.

“He caught on pretty quick.”

“He did.” I chuckle and admit, “He still calls me ‘sir.’”

Robbie laughs. “And you get off on it. See? A gift ,” he repeats. “You should say, ‘Thank you, Robbie.’ You should say, ‘You’re the best boss ever, Robbie.’”

“Boss. Ha.” I turn back to the stove. “Dream on.”

I never see it coming when he wraps both beefy arms around my waist and hauls me against his broad chest so my feet dangle two inches off the ground.

Listen, I’m five ten and a hundred seventy-five pounds—not a tiny person, compared to anyone but Robbie. No matter how many times he manhandles me like this, it’s always a shock. One that goes right to my balls.

I drop my spoon and pull halfheartedly at his arms. “Put me down?—!”

“You’re making this harder on yourself.” His deep voice rumbles through me, and his hot breath curls around my ear. “Say it. Say, ‘You’re the boss of me, Robbie.’”

“Fuck you. Death first.”

His arms tighten like steel bands, and he leans back, lifting me higher, pulling me against him so tightly I can barely breathe.

So tightly I forget I’m supposed to be fighting.

God, I hate this.

I mean, I love it—love Robbie’s arms wrapped tight around me, love how big he is, love the way his laughter vibrates right into my chest, love the scent of his cologne, love that me being gay has never stopped him from being physically affectionate.

I love it so much, some of my favorite fantasies begin just like this.

But I hate it, too, because Robbie’s categorically, gold-star straight.

I’ve asked him. So straight that even if he weren’t engaged to Lissa—hell, even if Lissa were raptured off the face of the planet tomorrow—I still wouldn’t have a chance.

And if Rob knew the effect his teasing was having on my dick, he’d feel awful that he couldn’t reciprocate.

No, seriously.

One time, I asked to borrow his ChapStick, forgetting he never uses the stuff, and he was so bummed he couldn’t help me out, he started carrying a stick just in case.

When I opened Watchfire, Rob learned to chop veggies and bake bread like a pro because he didn’t want to let me down if I needed him to pinch-hit.

Robbie didn’t have many examples of unconditional love growing up, so I don’t think he truly, deep down, knows how it works.