Praised By the Lumberjack (Sexy Lumbersnacks #3)

1. Hazel

one

Hazel

Ka-Thunk!

The whistle and subsequent thump of an axe hitting plywood shook the walls of Timber!, the axe-throwing bar that made me feel like a fish out of water. I'd much rather be at home with my books and a hot cup of tea right now, but I told myself I'd take more risks and put myself out there. So, here I was.

Hazel, the bookworm and twenty-five-year-old virgin decided to meet up with a guy she swiped right on.

I look around nervously before diving into a seat at the bar away from the noise of the axe-throwing aisles. I check my phone again, and the screen lights up in the dim bar. Nothing. Not even a "sorry, running late" text from Chad. Ugh, Chad. What kind of name was that, anyway? I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, humiliation and anger warring inside me. I try to discreetly tuck a loose curl behind my ear, my hands trembling slightly.

A sudden crash causes me to jump, and I watch a group of burly men laugh and clap each other on the back, all flannel and beard.

They're clearly having the time of their lives while I'm over here, twiddling my thumbs like a wallflower. I force a smile, hoping to blend in.

The barman, a burly guy with a beard as red as my hair, winks at me as he slides a drink my way. "On the house, darlin'. Looks like you could use it."

My cheeks flush even more, but I thank him graciously. "You're a lifesaver," I murmur, taking a quick sip. The whiskey burns slightly, but it's a welcome distraction. I gasp as it burns my throat, then check my phone again.

Nothing.

I tap my boots against the stool nervously. I'm so out of my element. I usually wear big sweaters and leggings. Today, I'm dressed in the only pair of jeans in my closet that still fit my curves.

Ok, maybe I had too many cookies during Christmas, but I love myself. I made my New Year's Resolution to put myself out there and try to date, and if anyone was worth my love, they'd have to love every inch of me.

I open my camera app and give myself another once over, discretely, so I don't look like a narcissist. My red hair is curled to frame my face, and I even put on some makeup today.

Chad was missing out.

I tried to tell myself that, anyway. All of the self-help podcasts told me to focus on positive self-talk to boost my confidence. But it was way harder when I was likely getting stood up.

I play with the empty shot glass, glancing at the door every time it opens and closes.

Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Then thirty.

"I guess he's not coming, Hazel," I mutter to myself.

I'm about to order another drink when another wave of cheers rings out from the axe-throwing aisles.

I watch the people playing. It actually looks kind of fun. One girl with her boyfriend chucks the axe directly at the target, the handle hits the wood and falls to the saw-dust covered floor with a bang. Both of them laugh.

My chest tightens. That's what I want. I want to have something special with someone like that. That's why I put myself out on that crappy app in the first place.

Maybe it was the single shot of whiskey in my system or the internal shame of being stood up, but I get a random surge of courage.

I march over to the guy who manages the axe aisles and ask, "Is there any free lanes right now?"

The guy looks up over his glasses. He has the lumberjack hipster vibe going on. "Uh," he looks around. "Yeah, lane eight." He points over to the other side of the bar. "You done this before?"

"Sure," I lie. I heard him give his spiel to people as they walked in, so I guess I know enough.

"Ok, have at 'er," he says with a chuckle.

I do my best to hide my nerves as I go to the eighth aisle. I'm the only one alone here. Most people are in big groups.

A few lanes over, there's a group of people being coached by one of the employees. I can't help but let my eyes slow down as they wander over his impressive physique.

The man coaching the axe-throwing group is exactly the kind of tall, dark, and handsome that makes a girl's heart flutter. His dark hair, green eyes, and muscular build are all framed perfectly by a red lumberjack plaid shirt that's rolled up to his elbows. He moves with an easy, confident grace, his smile warm and genuine as he demonstrates the proper axe-throwing stance to his group.

I catch myself staring and quickly look away, busying myself with picking up an axe from the rack. It's heavier than I expected, but I manage to balance it in my hand.

I step up to the throwing line, trying to remember the instructions the guy at the front was telling people while I waited for my date, who had never shown up. Keep your grip loose, bring it back over your head, and then release. Easy, right?

I take a deep breath, close one eye, and launch the axe. It spins through the air for a moment, then clatters to the ground nowhere near the target. I cringe, but everyone else is too busy to notice.

I don't pay attention to anyone around me. I'm already reaching for another axe. I'm not a quitter, and I'm not going to let a little humiliation ruin my night.

I pick up another axe and try again, this time with a little more force. The axe spins mid-air and nearly goes into another lane before sinking deep into the floor.

My face turns red as the party next to me jumps and backs away a few steps.

"S-sorry," I mutter.

"You're doing great," a voice says behind me. I turn to see the sexy lumberjack coach from earlier walking over with a smile. He leans against the barrier, crossing his arms over his chest. "Most people don't hit the target on their first try."

I blush, almost more embarrassed that he noticed me than my poor aim. "Thanks," I say, trying to play it cool.

The hunk of a lumberjack steps closer, offering his hand. "I'm Flint. I coach for our local axe-throwing league." He gestures to the logo on his shirt, a faded emblem of an axe head with flames flickering around it. "I've seen a lot of people try this for the first time. It's not as easy as it looks."

"I can see that," I say, barely able to maintain eye contact, and not just because he’s six-foot-five. "I'm Hazel, by the way. And I'm pretty sure I'm the worst axe-thrower in the history of axe-throwing."

Flint chuckles. It’s a deep sound that makes my insides twist in an unexpected way. "Nah, you're not that bad.

You've just got to trust your instincts and let the axe do the work," Flint says, his voice a smooth rumble that makes me want to lean in closer. "Want me to show you?"

I nod a little too eagerly, and he steps into the lane with me, his body close enough for me to smell the faint scent of woodsmoke and aftershave. He takes the axe from my hand, his fingers brushing against mine, and I swear I feel a jolt of electricity at the contact. I quickly tuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans to hide their sudden trembling.

Holy crap, who needed what's-his-face Chad when I had this guy to spend time with?