Chapter 8 Big Wood #2
“First, you need to check which way the tree is likely to fall.” I demonstrated how to assess the tree’s natural lean. “You want it to come down away from you, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoed, eyeing the massive spruce with newfound respect.
“Then you need the right stance.” I planted my feet shoulder-width apart. “Stable but flexible. You don’t want to be caught off-balance when it starts to go.”
Adrian mirrored my position, looking more like he was posing for a lumberjack calendar than preparing to chop down a tree. His new boots sank deeper into the snow as he shifted his weight.
“Now what?” he asked, gripping the axe a little too tightly.
I moved behind him without thinking, reaching around to adjust his hands on the handle. “Left hand here, right hand here. You want a firm grip but not a death grip.”
The moment my chest pressed against Adrian’s back, I realized my mistake. The faint scent of that cologne I’d caught a few days ago—something expensive and subtle—filled my senses. I was suddenly acutely aware of how perfectly my height matched his, how easily my arms fit around him.
“Like this?” Adrian asked, his voice oddly tight.
“Yeah,” I managed, forcing myself to focus on the task. “Now, when you swing, it’s all in the hips and shoulders. Let the weight of the axe do the work.”
I guided him through a practice swing, my hands still covering his on the wooden handle. He was warm despite the cold and more solid than I expected. His body moved with mine through the arc of the swing… and his ass rubbed against my dick.
Even through forty-seven layers of outerwear, I felt it… and, god help me, I responded. A flicker of heat flared in my core, and all the blood in my body rushed south.
“I, uh… I think I’ve got it,” Adrian said quickly, stepping away.
“Yeah.” I took a deliberate step back, too, grateful for the cold air on my warm face. “No, yeah, absolutely. Just, ah, remember to aim for the same spot each time. You’re creating a notch, not randomly hacking at it.”
Adrian nodded, focused now on the tree rather than our uncomfortable proximity. He took a deep breath, raised the axe, and swung.
The blade connected with the trunk with a dull thud, barely sinking in before bouncing off.
“That was… pitiful,” I said, unable to hold back a laugh.
His eyes narrowed. “Test swing.”
Three more swings, three more underwhelming results. I bit my tongue but couldn’t keep from saying, “Not sure you need this many test swings.”
He bit out a curse and made a fourth attempt. This time, the blade finally bit into the bark with a satisfying thunk. Adrian’s face lit up with triumph, making my breath catch a little in the thin air.
“There you go,” I said. “Turns out, you just needed to be needled a little.”
“Fuck off,” he said with a laugh before hauling the axe back for another attempt.
I stepped behind the camera, adjusting the frame to capture his increasingly confident swings.
Despite the ridiculous contrast of his luxury outfit against the rugged activity, he looked good.
Natural, even. The determination on his face, the way his body had quickly adapted to the rhythm of the work—it made for compelling footage.
After about ten minutes of steady chopping, sweat glistened on his forehead despite the cold.
He’d removed his camel coat and scarf, working in just the cream sweater that hugged his torso like a second skin.
I tried not to notice how the physical exertion had brought a flush to his cheeks or how his hair had fallen across his forehead in a way that was frustratingly attractive.
“How much longer?” he asked, pausing to catch his breath. “This tree is tougher than it looks.”
“Welcome to real work,” I teased. “Not everything can be accomplished in a ninety-second clip.”
He shot me a look. “I’ll have you know I’ve done plenty of hard work in my life.”
“Lifting a pitcher of margaritas on a yacht doesn’t count.”
Adrian’s flushed cheeks darkened, which, of course, only made him more attractive. “Neither does being an ass, yet here you are, excelling at it.”
I grinned, enjoying our back-and-forth more than I should. “Keep chopping, city boy. You’re about halfway.”
Adrian rolled his shoulders and resumed his attack on the tree with renewed vigor. I captured his efforts on camera, occasionally offering guidance on his technique. The snow continued to fall more heavily around us, the light taking on that peculiar quality that comes before a serious storm.
“I’m creating a notch on this side,” Adrian said, gesturing to the wedge he’d cut. “Don’t we need to chop from the other side, too?”
I raised an eyebrow, impressed. “You’ve been watching lumberjack videos on YouTube.”
“I prepare for my shoots,” he replied with dignity. “Even the ones with emergency-substitute grumpy photographers.”
“You’re right,” I admitted, walking over to inspect his work. “Cut a bit higher on the opposite side, and the tree will fall in this direction.” I pointed away from where we were standing.
He nodded and moved to the other side of the trunk.
His technique had improved considerably, each swing now landing with purpose.
I found myself watching his movements rather than focusing on the camera—the flex of muscle beneath that ridiculously expensive sweater, the determination in his expression, the competence he’d developed in just minutes.
The tree began to creak ominously after several more powerful blows. Adrian paused, looking to me for guidance.
“A few more should do it,” I advised. “But be ready to move when it starts to go.”
He nodded, bracing himself for the final cuts. The tree swayed slightly with each impact, the cracking sounds growing louder. Adrian’s face was a study in concentration, completely focused on the task.
“It’s going!” I called out as the massive spruce began to tilt.
But something was wrong. Instead of falling in the direction we’d planned, the tree was leaning toward Adrian. He was still too close, still focused on his chopping, not realizing the danger.
“Adrian, move!” I shouted, already lunging toward him.
His head snapped up, eyes widening as he saw the tree tipping. He froze for a split second too long, and I didn’t hesitate—I dove forward, tackling him around the waist and sending us both tumbling into the deep snow several feet away.
The tree crashed down with a thunderous sound, branches brushing my back as we rolled clear of its path. When we finally stopped moving, I found myself on top of Adrian, my hands braced in the snow on either side of his head, our faces inches apart.
Time seemed to stop. Snowflakes fell around us in silent slow motion as we stared at each other, breathing hard.
His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, lips parted slightly in surprise.
My heart hammered against my ribs, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the adrenaline of the near miss or from the sudden, overwhelming proximity of him beneath me.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice a little shaky and his breath forming a small cloud between us. “That’s not how Hallmark movies portray this shit. Homicide by Christmas tree.”
“The tree wasn’t going to kill you,” I replied, my voice rougher than I intended. “Maybe just maim you a little.”
He laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine where our bodies pressed together. “You can’t let me have my dramatic moment, can you?”
I should have moved. Should have rolled off him, made a joke, maintained the professional distance I’d been so determined to keep.
But I couldn’t seem to make my body cooperate.
His eyes held mine, something unspoken passing between us as the snow continued to fall, insulating us in our own private world.
Our bodies were pressed together, knees to chest—and every delicious thing in between—and I felt the warm, solid muscle of him against me.
Adrian’s gaze dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second, and my breath caught. The air between us felt charged, electric. Without conscious thought, I found myself leaning even closer, drawn by some invisible force I didn’t want to name.
His hand came up to brush snow from my hair, his fingers lingering against my temple. “Maddox,” he whispered, and my name on his lips sounded like a question I desperately wanted to answer.
Adrian’s heartbeat raced beneath my palm, which had somehow found its way to his chest. The rational part of my brain was screaming warnings, reminding me of all the reasons this was a terrible idea, but it was being drowned out by the roaring in my ears and the heat spreading through my body despite the snow seeping into my clothes.
His head tilted up slightly, eliminating another inch of the space between us. I could feel his breath on my lips now, warm and inviting. My eyes began to close of their own accord.
A violent shiver ran through Adrian’s body, breaking the spell. His teeth actually chattered as another shudder shook him.
“You’re freezing,” I said, clarity rushing back as I noticed the snow melting into his sweater, the pallor beneath his flushed cheeks.
“I’ve had men call me hot before, but never cold,” he replied with a weak attempt at his usual charm, but his continued shivering betrayed him.
I rolled off him and stood quickly, offering my hand to pull him up. “Come on. We need to get you warmed up.”
He took my hand, rising unsteadily to his feet. His designer clothes were soaked through from our tumble in the snow, his expensive sweater now clinging to him in a way that would have been distracting if I wasn’t worried about hypothermia.
I shrugged out of my jacket and wrapped it around his shoulders. It was lined with shearling wool and would provide more warmth than the designer coat he’d left in a snowdrift.
“I can’t take your coat,” he protested weakly.
“I’m not offering options here. Besides, I’m used to the cold.” I settled it over him despite his objections. “And you’re soaking wet.”