Chapter 14 Harris
Harris
Turns out, I’m as terrible at chopping wood as I am at logrolling.
You’d think being a linebacker would help, but no.
My form sucks, my swings are off, and I’m pretty sure the last piece of wood I’m attempting to split is made of concrete.
“I have no idea what to do with you.” Annabelle moans, pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s on the verge of firing me. “You have the muscles, but that’s all you’re bringing to the table. I don’t get it!”
I wipe the sweat from my brow, glaring at the log. “I’m better when I’m hitting things that move.”
Annabelle lets out a short laugh, tossing a water bottle at me. “Unless you plan on tackling the logs, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
I twist the cap off and take a long drink, letting the cold water drown some of my frustration. Across the training field, the other guys are chopping wood like they were born holding an axe, sweat glistening on their backs as chunks of wood fly in clean splits.
As if they’re actually professionals.
Fucking irritating as hell.
She watches me watching them and sighs loudly. “I hate to break it to you, but the festival crowd does not want a wrestling match in the middle of the lumberjack stage, so you’re gonna have to figure this out.” Her hands go to her hips. “Try again.”
I groan internally, picking up the axe. Annabelle glares like Coach, and the pressure feels heavier than it should. I take a breath, grip the handle tighter, and bring it down.
Miss.
“Shit.” Annabelle snorts, and I scowl at her over my shoulder. “Don’t laugh at me. I’m working on it.”
“I’m laughing with you,” she lies. “Come on, Harris. At this rate, you’re going to be the comedic relief of the festival.”
Fantastic.
Exactly what I want.
To be remembered as the lumberjack who couldn’t split wood to save his life.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I almost ignore it, but something about the timing makes me pause. I pull it out and glance at the screen.
Lucy:
So. I’ve been thinking . . .
I blink at the message, the axe suddenly forgotten in my hand.
About me, obviously, I type back, smirking as I wait for her response. She’s going to be so irritated.
When it comes, I can’t help but chuckle.
I’m about to respond when Annabelle claps her hands behind me, snapping me back to reality. “Hi. Remember me? I hate to remind you that we have a show to do in a mere matter of days—so unless that text is someone giving you step-by-step instructions on how to chop wood, I suggest you focus.”
Jeez. What a hard-ass.
I tuck my phone back into my pocket, my thoughts still half on Lucy. “One more try.”
I raise the axe again, trying to shake off the mental image of Lucy smirking at me through the screen, teasing me the way she always does. This time, I focus on the damn log and swing with everything I’ve got.
Crack. The axe buries itself halfway through the wood, but it doesn’t split cleanly. It sits there, mocking me like the universe wants to test my patience.
“Better,” Annabelle says, her tone somewhere between encouragement and pity. “We might make a lumberjack out of you yet.”
I doubt that.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead, laughing under my breath. “Or I’ll be the cautionary tale for future recruits.”
She taps the clipboard in her hand, smirking. “Either way, you’ll be remembered.”
Little does she know this will probably be all over the evening news, once people realize who it is making an ass of himself.
The guys around me are still going strong, splitting logs like pros, while I contemplate whether to throw my axe into the lake.
“Wally is a fucking show-off.” I can’t stand that dumbass.
Huffing, I swing the axe again. This time, it grazes the log and sends a sharp vibration up my arms. I grit my teeth as Wally splits another log effortlessly and grins over at me like he’s the king of the goddamn town festival.
“I hate that guy,” I grumble to Annabelle as I shoot him a glare, tempted to tackle him as a reminder to him who the real athlete is—then remember no one knows I am who I am.
These dudes do not follow football, or they would be fawning all over me, period.
That oughta give me some satisfaction, but it doesn’t.
Annabelle laughs, grinning as she marks something on her clipboard. “You know, if you hate him this much, maybe you should beat him in the axe-throwing competition. Show him who’s boss.”
I smirk at the thought but quickly shake it off. “If today’s any indication, I’d probably end up killing someone in the crowd by accident.”
Annabelle waves me off. “Nah, you’ll figure it out. You’re built for this, Harris. Just a little rusty.”
Rusty. That’s putting it kindly.
I pick up the axe again, ignoring the ache in my arms and the growing frustration settling in my chest. Normally, I’d thrive in an environment like this—competition, adrenaline, all eyes on me. But right now, the only person I want to impress is the one blowing up my phone with texts.
Speaking of . . .
My phone buzzes. I pull it out and skim the new message from Lucy, the corner of my mouth lifting.
Lucy:
So this might seem random, but . . .
Lucy:
I was wondering if you want to come to my place. Tonight, specifically.
I can barely believe my eyes!
Her invite settles deep in my chest, igniting something primal—something that makes me want to drop this axe right here and sprint to my car. My fingers hover over the keyboard, thoughts racing as fast as my pulse.
“Get this,” I tell Annabelle, knowing they’re friends and excited to have gossip to share. “Lucy invited me back to her place tonight.”
My boss’s brows shoot straight up into her hairline. “For real?”
I nod. “Yup.”
Cocky now, I swing the axe, suddenly mastering the skill of wood chopping, blade connecting perfectly with the log, splitting it clean in half. I let out a triumphant “WHOOP!” of victory, standing taller. “Hell yeah!”
“Thank God.” Annabelle says with a chuckle, jotting something down on her clipboard before palming her phone and reading the screen. “If you’d missed again, I was going to have you stacking logs.”
She of little faith.
“Not today, Satan.” I toss the axe to the ground like I’m ready to retire undefeated. “I have a date tonight.”
“Maybe she’s your lucky charm,” she teases, leaning her clipboard against her hip. “I knew the two of you were texting but didn’t realize you were at the point where you were hanging out.”
“She was at my place last night,” I inform Annabelle with a satisfied grin. “We watched a movie.”
And fooled around.
Then I begged her to stay, and she turned me down, so I jerked off after cleaning up and climbing into bed.
“Let me get this straight—Lucy was at your place last night—and now she’s invited you to hers? What world am I living in right now?”
“Why are you saying it like that? In that tone?”
Annabelle shrugs. “There’s no tone. I’m just shocked! This is so unlike her.” She pauses to study my face. “Are you bringing her wine, flowers—or just showing up?”
“Probably wine?” Did I answer correctly? I feel like this is what she’s looking for—but I’ve had the invite to Lucy’s for all of five minutes, so Annabelle can climb down off my nut sack about hostess gifts. “Yes?”
“Yes.” She taps her pen to her lips. “And make sure it’s a good bottle. Nothing with a screw cap, unless you want her thinking you picked it up from the gas station.”
“Noted—no screw cap.” I chuckle. “You should be my dating coach.”
She gives me a sly grin. “Trust me, you don’t need a coach.”
Aww. I’m flattered.
“Every so often I could use the help,” I say, grabbing my water bottle. “My friends are assholes.”
I take a long swig, thinking about Lucy’s place and all the possibilities that await. The idea of being in her space makes my pulse kick up another notch.
Annabelle gives me a playful nudge. “My only advice—as your dating coach—is don’t mess this up, dude. Lucy is one of the good ones.”
I roll my eyes at her warning, putting the cap back on my water jug. “Duh.”
“I’m not kidding. She doesn’t invite anyone to her place,” she points out. “She’s particular.”
My brows go up. “Is that a code word for high maintenance and picky?”
Annabelle lifts her shoulders up and down. “Bit of both, probably.”
Fair enough. “High maintenance and picky don’t scare me.”
Bring it on.
The next ten minutes go by in a blur of sweat, sawdust, and a growing anticipation in my gut. By the time I’m done stacking the last log, Annabelle’s already given me a once-over, like she’s silently calculating how much of a mess I look.
“You can’t show up to her place smelling like tree sap,” she warns, scrunching up her nose. “Go shower. Maybe shave that scruff a bit. It’s borderline caveman right now.”
“This is my signature scruff.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Your signature scruff has wood chips in it.”
I pluck a stray chip from my beard and flick it to the ground. “Adds to the rugged charm.”
“Does it, though?”
Guess not.
“Oh! And before you go dreaming about romance, let me remind you that you need to be here Saturday morning at seven o’clock sharp for the show.”
I groan. “Seven in the morning?”
“Yes,” she replies with zero sympathy. “We’re doing final prep before the main event starts at noon. Don’t be late, or I’ll have you hauling logs solo. Wear flannel, jeans, and those boots you wore the other day—they make you look like an actual lumberjack and not someone pretending to be one.”
“Flannel and boots.” I nod enthusiastically. “Got it.”
She taps her pen against her clipboard. “Oh, and leave Lucy’s place in time to get some sleep. I need you rested and in one piece.”
I salute her. “Anything else, boss?”
“Tell all your friends, if you have any. We still have some VIP tickets, and I would love to get those sold.” She inhales a breath. “In hindsight, having front-row seats next to the water may not have been a draw—but it’s as close as you can get to the action. We even have a dunk tank.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “You’re putting me in the dunk tank if I’m late.”