Chapter 4
Luke
Quinn stomps out of the cabin and onto the porch wearing leggings, a raincoat that definitely isn’t hers, and oversized rain boots.
“Jesus,” I mutter as she stands on the porch with her hands on her hips. “You’re gonna break your neck.”
“I’m fine. These are all I could find in the closet,” she says, waving me off. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying wood. I used to help my dad build bonfires in the backyard all the time.”
“Backyard bonfires and enough wood to survive a mountain storm aren’t the same thing.”
She gives me a look loaded with attitude, and it makes my dick jump. This woman is full of sass. “Thanks for the mansplaining, but I’m still more than capable.”
I shrug, grabbing two cords of wood like they weigh nothing. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She marches over to the woodpile, and I hear her mumble something about being with a mountain man maniac. She grabs a small log, then another, stacking them all wrong in her arms.
“This isn’t Lincoln Logs. You don’t crisscross them. Lay them all in one direction.” She rolls her eyes at me and grabs another log, placing it opposite the others. I can’t help myself and pick on her once more. “You might want to balance those.”
“I am balancing them.”
“No, you’re juggling them. And not very well.”
Her whole body sways with the attitude she tries to throw at me. “I swear to God, Luke, if you say one more—ah!”
The top log wiggles around, and when she tries to catch it, the bottom one slips out. She tries to save the entire pile, but her extra-large boots don't move freely with her. She stumbles backwards and lands flat on her ass in a pile of rain-soaked leaves.
I freeze. Then burst out in laughter. It’s loud, obnoxious, and even startles me when it hits my ears.
“Oh, real mature,” Quinn snaps, struggling to stand in those ridiculous boots, brushing the wet leaves from her ass. “Glad my wet ass is your favorite comedy special.”
I raise my brows, trying to control the laughter. “You should’ve seen your face.”
“I meant to do that,” she lies, attempting to stand and save whatever dignity she has left.
“Bullshit. You meant to give me a hard time and act like you know what you’re doing.”
With her hands on her hips, she says, “If you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly look like the Brawny paper towel guy, so excuse me if I wasn’t stacking wood correctly.”
“I tried to warn you–”
She cuts me off and points her finger at me. “And then instead of helping, you criticized.”
“Quinn–”
“And then you laughed at me! I could have been hurt!”
“Trust me, with an ass like that, you weren’t getting hurt.”
Those words slip out before I have a chance to really think about it. The fire in her eyes tells me it was the wrong thing to say.
“And now I have a fat ass.”
“You called me the Brawny guy.”
“You’re infuriating,”
“And you make me crazy.”
Fuck. Why did I say all that? This woman takes all the sense from me.
The air around us dances, and suddenly, grabbing wood doesn’t feel like a simple chore anymore.
I think my coming to help her was a bad idea.
I want to touch and kiss those lips delivering all those snarky fucking comments.
I clear my throat, pick up the logs she dropped, and walk toward the cabin.
“You coming?” I ask without looking back, but my heart races and my dick jumps when I swear I hear her sing-song, “Not yet.”