Chapter 9 Holly
HOLLY
Chopping firewood is way harder than it looks. It seems like a straightforward process. Place wood. Take aim. Chop.
I figured this would be therapeutic and easy. Instead, it’s pissing me off more than it’s providing any outlet for stress relief.
Actually, the true reason I’m so worked up is because of Caleb.
For three days in a row, he’s gotten up earlier than me—a surprise all on its own considering the first morning here he practically sleepwalked straight into my tits—and made breakfast for me every morning.
And lunch.
And dinner.
Hell, he’s even preparing snacks in between meals. He made me a goddamn cheese board. How am I supposed to resist cheese?
A man who keeps a woman fed is a unicorn these days.
Is it the bare minimum? Of course, but this is a man I’m talking about.
They’re so different from dating women. Although, my relationship with the girl I dated after college fell apart, too.
The few dates I’ve been on since haven’t gone further than the first few outings, and none progressed to the relationship stage because no one measured up to someone who deserves me.
The important barometer here is if he wanted to, he would.
And Caleb is pulling out all the stops without leaving any room to wonder his motive.
The coffee is brewed exactly how I like it each morning by the time I’m awake, and after we eat he doesn’t allow me to lift a finger to help him do the dishes.
When I insisted I should do my share of chores since he keeps cooking, he said he remembered that washing dishes is one of my most disliked tasks ever and he didn’t mind doing them for me if it makes my life easier, leaving me speechless.
I’m not blind. He’s not hiding those alluring looks or how his gaze turns sultry and hooded at the lingering touches whenever our hands brush.
I’m not immune to his charming efforts, either.
When he nearly kissed me a few nights ago, I almost let him.
The resolution I made to withstand his charisma, no matter how tempting? Completely forgotten once I was trapped by those irresistible green eyes, shivering from him being near enough his breath ghosted across my mouth.
I was so swept up in how fun it was to bake with him. He’s always been a good kisser and it’s been too long since I was last kissed until I was melting. The last person to kiss me like that was him.
I was moments from slipping my arms around his broad, sturdy shoulders and tilting my chin up, anticipating his mouth claiming mine.
The fantasy of what could’ve been flashes in my mind.
How he’d hover his lips over mine and ask if I wanted him to kiss me.
How I’d whisper yes.
His embrace tightening and the relieved groan that might slip out of him before his mouth collided with mine in a sizzling kiss full of the passion we once burned with together.
I press my chilled fingers to my lips and close my eyes before fantasy Caleb lifts me by my waist to the counter and fits his sexy sculpted body between my thighs.
I want to stay mad at him and hold on to my grudge forever. Yet he’s finding every possible way to get under my skin by being so doting. I swear, before I even realize I need something, he seems to anticipate it.
Whether it’s bringing me a blanket and a mug of hot cocoa while I’m reading by the fire, warming my towel before I shower, or cleaning up for me after I spend hours baking—he thoughtfully sees to everything little I could want without being asked.
He’s tempting me to risk it all by letting my guard down.
It’s difficult to thwart when he comes across as a far more grown up and earnest version of himself than the driven boy who left to become a professional hockey player.
Trouble is…if I did, would we be repeating our short-lived indulgence only for him to pick hockey over me again?
Why does it have to be him my heart is so smitten with? It doesn’t matter that I’m attracted to more than one gender, no one has ever made it beat as strongly as he does.
Normally in this precarious situation I’d ask Layla for her advice, but going to my best friend about her brother is out of the question.
The thrill of sneaking around because we were young and impulsive made us keep things a secret before.
When things ended before we got serious, I ended up not telling Layla, struck by how ridiculous I was for catching feelings over a fling.
I miss her, though. We rarely go more than forty-eight hours without talking. The cell signal is still spotty since it stopped snowing two days ago, and after checking in with my brother first, I only manage to chat with Layla for short spurts before it drops.
At least Leo called Hazel down to Mayfield to help him and Leta manage things at Blissful Bites while I’m gone. They’ve all promised me they’re going to take good care of my baby.
The blizzard might be over, but it left everything buried under heaps of fresh snow. We’re still stuck here until the roads are cleared.
Since Caleb took care of cooking, again, I thought I’d pay him back by chopping more firewood so we’re even.
I’m getting nowhere with it. The best I managed was splintering a piece that’s little more than kindling. I keep missing or getting the axe stuck partway down the log before it cuts all the way through.
The thought of asking Caleb for his help crosses my mind.
I hastily chase the urge away. Not only because I don’t want to admit defeat, but also because asking for anyone’s help is difficult for me.
It makes me feel like I’m making a burden of myself.
I figure things out on my own, the way I always have.
It’s faster and far easier than opening myself up for the chance to be let down.
Raising the axe overhead, I squint at my target and let it have it with a fierce yell.
I think I’ve got it this time. The swing felt good and I connected with the wood. Except to my dismay, the blade is stuck halfway through the log I’ve been chipping away at.
“Ugh. Me and wood are not getting along up here.”
It takes some struggling and planting my foot on the log to remove the axe.
When it pops free, I stumble backwards, catching myself before I plant my ass in a snowbank Caleb shoveled a path through so we could walk to the wood pile.
He hasn’t cleared the massive amounts of snow engulfing our cars yet.
After blowing loose strands of pink hair from my face, I grip the handle hard enough to choke and prop my fists on my hips.
While the logical side of my brain understands that every skill takes practice to achieve the desired end result, it really irritates me when I’m not immediately good at something.
A judgmental honk from Greta makes me laugh and hang my head back.
Once the storm was over, Caleb hiked the two miles and back to get her home to the farm, but she’s returned today. She parked her fluffy white goose butt nearby when I started my attempts to chop wood.
“You’re not helping,” I tell her.
She preens her feathers with a distinct cluck that I can only interpret as her giving me attitude.
“Keep it up and you’re cut off from my cranberries,” I warn.
The goose ignores me, helping herself to the berries I brought out for her when she appeared out of the pine trees. As I get ready for chopping attempt number…I’ve lost count, she wanders off around the bushes.
“You can do this,” I coach. “Line it up where you want to hit it. Picture it’s Caleb’s head. His inflated, infuriatingly attractive face.”
I swing and wedge it right into the same spot I got stuck in before. This time it’s not budging when I tug the handle.
“Oh, come on,” I say with a sigh.
“Need my help?”
I whirl around at the deep, smoky offer to find Caleb leaning a shoulder against the porch column with a mug set on the railing in front of him.
He’s watching me with the hint of a smirk, arms folded.
He’s the picture of a casual, laid-back mountain man.
I do my best to ignore how nice his muscled arms look pulling his sweater taut.
“How long have you been there?” I ask.
“Only a minute.” His eyes dance with humor and satisfaction. “My face is attractive, huh?”
“No,” I snap too quickly.
His grin spreads slowly. “Whatever you say, sugar cookie.”
Greta’s attitude changes immediately from dour to excited as she comes back from exploring. She cackles, flapping her wings and waddling to him. He meets her halfway, crouching with a fond, crooked smile.
“Hi, pretty girl.” He strokes her back.
“Of course you want the heartbreaker,” I mutter.
“Heartbreaker?” Caleb repeats.
I didn’t mean for him to overhear the nickname I’ve been calling him by for years in my head. Crossing my arms, I lift my chin.
“Yeah. That’s you.”
“I see,” he muses. “Well, we have to fix that. Don’t we, Greta?”
He acts like it’ll be so easy. As if he already knows his odds of getting into my pants is a done deal.
Cocky ass.
No matter how much he flirts with me, or makes me food, or acts all cool and swoonworthy—it’s not happening. I have a perfectly working vibrator in my luggage. I don’t need him.
I rest the axe against the stump and stretch. Despite not having much to show for it, my arms twinge from the workout.
“Come take a break, tough girl. I made you this to warm you up.” He nods to the steaming mug he left on the railing.
My mouth purses to the side. I take him up on it, only because I’m cold.
Greta hisses in warning at my approach, arching her neck to stare me down with one eye. She puffs up her feathers to appear more intimidating.
I freeze. “Is she going to attack me?”
“I’d never let that happen. But she can be a little, uh…possessive of me, I guess.” He covers his mouth, obviously hiding how hilarious he finds it.
This is what my life has come to. Beefing with a territorial goose that likes my ex-boyfriend better than me.
“Girl, you can have him,” I say to the goose.
Muffled laughter escapes Caleb. “Ladies, ladies. No need to fight over me. Greta, you have to be a nice goose. We like Holly. We don’t hiss at her.”
Scoffing, I return to my pitiful excuse for chopping firewood. He lets me get one more swing in before he comes over to help me dislodge it.
His hands curl around mine and his chest is a solid force at my back. My breath hitches and I’m overwhelmed by his delicious woodsy, masculine scent. With his arms surrounding me, he frees it with a firm yank.
“Let me do this. Drink your coffee before it cools down,” he says.
His tone carries a hint of authority that stirs molten heat low in my stomach. It leaves me short of breath with butterflies tickling my stomach.
My grip tightens on the axe because I’m hardwired to fight anyone who tries to tell me to do something out of stubbornness. He doesn’t give it up yet, studying me tenderly.
“I’ll do it for you,” he says.
“I can do it myself,” I shoot back.
“I know. But I want to take care of it for you so you don’t wear yourself out.”
My stomach flips. When he says things like that, my heart forgets why I shouldn’t like him.
“Unless you want me to teach you?” He steps into me. “Show you how to hold it right? If that’s what you want, say the word.”
I release the handle with a sharp inhale at the innuendo and narrow my eyes. “I can’t stand you.”
He tilts his head, chuckling with a smug grin. “Is that right? I don’t believe you.”
Make that two of us. Because I’m not sure my own words are convincing when my heart is beating fast and being near him sparks excitement that races through me.
“Enjoy your coffee,” he murmurs.
He guides me a few paces away with a hand resting at my lower back to keep me out of harm's way before he plants his feet and winds up.
With one swing that embodies the strength, grace, and coordination of the athlete he is, he splits the log I hacked at in two. Then he resets a piece and splinters it in half again, then another until it’s whittled down to four pieces.
He makes it look effortless. And hot. Really fucking hot.
My mouth goes dry as he continues, hoisting up a bulky log like it weighs nothing at all to him before bringing the axe down with a masculine grunt.
The crack of the wood coming apart where the axe strikes reverberates with a pang of desire inside me.
The simmering, insistent pulse continues with each chop until I’m aching.
It’s impossible to tear my attention from him.
As an eldest daughter, I’m as independent as they come. Yet part of me likes the ways he’s taking care of me.