Chapter 6 Lucy
Lucy
When I show up at the marina, I don’t know what I’m expecting—maybe a group of rugged guys in plaid shirts, chopping wood with brooding intensity. You know, actual lumberjacks.
What I find instead is Harris.
Stacking logs.
In swim trunks?
The sharp thwack of an axe hitting wood echoes across the dock, and for the briefest moment I think I’ve wandered onto the set of a very low-budget reality competition show.
Harris is at the center of it all, sweat glistening on his neck and arms as he hefts another log onto the growing pile beside him.
Three other buff-looking dudes are lounging nearby in varying levels of disinterest. One’s scrolling through his phone, another is picking at his fingernails, and the last one looks half asleep with his feet propped up on a crate.
Poor Annabelle.
“Is there a plan here, or are you building a beaver dam?” I call out to Harris, stopping a few feet away from him with my arms crossed.
Harris straightens, leaning the axe handle against his shoulder. When he spots me, that cocky grin that’s perma-plastered on his face gets wider.
“Hey, hottie,” he says, genuinely pleased to see me. “You showed up. Couldn’t wait to see the magic happen?”
He flexes for good measure, and my eyes drift down to his swim trunks, choosing not to ask the reason he’s wearing them, focusing my attention on the logs he’s stacking.
“If by magic you mean stacking firewood, then yeah—I’m totally blown away by your talent.”
If he senses my sarcasm, he doesn’t let on. “Not all heroes wear capes.”
I laugh. “Is that what you call this?”
“We have a job to do, and I’m the team leader,” he explains, leaning on his axe, gesturing toward the dudes who are sitting around not practicing.
“Team leader?” one of the other lumberjacks calls, not looking up from his phone. “You’ve been posing like a jackass influencer for twenty minutes.”
Harris points the axe at him. “Respect the craft, Wallace.”
“My name is Wally. I’ve corrected you at least ninety-two tim—”
“Enough bickering, dear God!” Annabelle comes stomping over from the shed—which has doubled as her office over the past few weeks—boots crunching on the gravel as she barrels toward us. “Listen, guys. We have less than one week to get our shit together, which means you all need to look convincing—”
“Already got that covered, boss,” Harris interrupts, striking an exaggerated pose, one boot up on a log. He flexes his calf muscle, tan highlighted by the bright-blue wave pattern of his shorts. “Bam. Look at this definition.”
Annabelle disregards his posturing. “Kyle, you’re the chain saw demo.
” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Wally, the two-man saw with Bill. Harris.” She glances over at him, eyes homing in on the swim trunks.
“You’re scheduled for the main event: logrolling competition. I need all of you to try and not die.”
Harris doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be fine. The crowd loves an underdog story.”
One of the guys snorts. “An underdog story usually still involves someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Harris says confidently, hoisting the axe on one shoulder like he’s posing for a bodywash commercial.
Annabelle glances down at her clipboard. “How many times have you logrolled before?”
Harris shrugs. “I mean—how hard can it be?”
Wally grins. “I give you ten seconds before you biff it.”
“I’ll take the over on that,” the other guy muses. “Fifteen before he eats it.”
“Twenty!” I chime in on the roasting. “I have total faith in him.”
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, William,” Harris fires back at the burly man wearing a frown.
“My name is Bill, asshole. And you’re as useful as a cardboard axe.” He finally looks up. “We get it—you can swing an axe—but that doesn’t mean you can chop wood.”
“I’ll do what it takes to keep the fans happy.” Harris winks at me, and I immediately regret showing up to this circus.
Annabelle appears glassy eyed, as if she’s stopped listening entirely.
“Jeez, you guys! Stop!” She waves a hand in the air in defeat.
“Do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt yourself—or anyone else.
Harris, I swear, if you spin that axe again, I’m pulling you from the event.
I don’t care how much the crowd loves a spectacle. It is not safe.”
Harris rests the axe carefully against the log pile, then lifts his hands in surrender and steps away. “Okay, okay. No axe showmanship. But you’re killing my creative flow, Annabelle.”
Her glare could strip paint off a wall.
I can’t help it—I laugh.
Harris hears me, of course, and whirls toward me with that smug expression plastered across his face. “See? Lucy believes in me.”
“I don’t think Lucy believes in you at all,” Bill corrects, deadpan. “That was a pity laugh.”
Harris points at him. “Keep talking and you’re off my team.”
“Team?” Bill scoffs. “Dude, for the second time today—we are not your team! We’re coworkers.”
“Enough!” Annabelle claps her hands sharply to cut them off. “Everyone back to work. I have actual things to organize that don’t involve babysitting a bunch of overgrown boys.”
She stalks off, muttering under her breath about liability waivers, leaving us standing in awkward silence.
I shift my feet.
Harris stretches as if he hadn’t gotten scolded. “All right, you heard her. Back to work! Someone hand me another log.” He wiggles his fingers.
“Or,” Wally suggests. “You could stop showing off and actually learn how to roll one of those things. You know—since that’s your job.”
Wally’s built like a truck—broad shoulders, tree-trunk arms, and a face that has seen one too many bar fights.
His flannel shirt has the arms cut off; it’s worn and faded, displaying the kind of forearms that could split wood without an axe.
Sawdust clings to his jeans, and he’s eyeing Harris like he’s trying to figure out if he’s joking or plain useless.
Kyle is a little lean for a lumberjack but no less imposing. He’s perched with his booted feet planted wide, a hat pulled low over his sharp features. His beard is scruffy, peppered with premature gray, and when he looks up from his phone, his eyes are twinkling.
“All that fucker has done is pose,” Bill drawls, flicking a wood shaving into the lake. “Didn’t think this was a beauty contest.”
“I’m versatile,” Harris fires back, still grinning as he straightens up.
Bill snorts. “Versatile at what? Wasting time? Where the hell did they find you?”
Wally stands idly by, observing the chaos—the oldest of the group, with deep-set eyes and a voice that sounds like gravel. He’s got thick arms and a scar cutting through one eyebrow and has a menacing glower. Unlike the other two, he doesn’t bother cracking smiles or jokes.
He narrows his gaze on Harris and growls, “You think the log is gonna roll itself, pretty boy?”
Whoa.
I raise my eyebrows in response.
Harris lets out a low whistle, unbothered. “You’re a black ray of sunshine, huh?” he quips. “Who pissed you off?”
Wally grunts, grabbing a log with one hand and chucking it onto the dock, where it lands with a thud. “This isn’t summer camp, kid. Either pick up the pace or get out of the way.”
Harris tilts his head, eyeing the guy up and down. “Jeez, dude. Do you practice that stare in the mirror, or does it come naturally?”
Wally doesn’t blink. “You wanna waste time running your mouth, or you wanna learn how not to crack your skull open?”
Kyle mutters under his breath. “I kinda wanna see him crack his skull open.”
I giggle, barely suppressing my grin. “Let’s not encourage head trauma.”
Harris holds up a hand, completely unfazed. “Relax, old man. I got this.”
Wally wipes his hands on his jeans and folds his arms across his chest. “You ever actually been on a rolling log before, or were you hoping charm was gonna carry you across the lake?”
Harris puffs out his chest. Walks to the edge of the dock and gazes down into the water, where logs bob up and down from the wake. I watch as he bends over and drags one closer to the pier.
He plants one foot on the log.
The log responds immediately by shifting beneath him. Rolling. Wet. Harris wobbles, arms shooting out to the sides for balance, and I swear, the entire group collectively holds their breath.
“Careful now,” the crabby guy grumbles. “Don’t make me jump in and rescue you.”
I can hardly bear to watch, peeking between my fingers.
“He looks real steady to me,” Wally calls, voice heavy with sarcasm. “A true professional.”
“Shut up, Wallace!” Harris snaps, doing his best to adjust his footing on a soaking wet log.
Everything about this is all wrong: his swim trunks, his boots. His attitude.
One foot on the log.
He steadies it, holding it still.
“The kid is about to baptize himself,” Bill announces.
“Stop calling me kid, William,” Harris grits out. From here, I can see him leaning too far to one side to remain stable. “I’ve got this.”
“Five bucks says he’s down in three seconds,” Wally mutters.
“Two seconds,” Bill corrects.
“One.” I laugh.
As if on cue, Harris’s feet slip out from under him, his arms flailing wildly before he hits the water with a spectacular splash.
The entire dock goes silent for a beat; the only sound is the rippling of water and the faint squawk of a seagull overhead.
Bill lets out a booming laugh. “Called it! Two seconds.”
Wally doubles over, clutching his stomach. “Ten out of ten on the dismount! The boy cannot stay out of the water!”
Harris resurfaces with a sputter, blinking lake water out of his eyes. He pushes his soaked hair back with both hands before leveling the group with an unimpressed glare.
“You’re sooo hilarious.”
With a grunt, he hauls himself onto the dock, boots squishing as water pools around him. His drenched T-shirt clings to his chest, his swim trunks sag a little lower, and his pride?
Fully submerged somewhere at the bottom of the lake.
Bill claps a hand on Harris’s soaked shoulder. “You’re a natural, bro.”