Chapter 8
Sophie
“And that’s the last one,” I give Whiskey a triumphant grin as we finish the final jar of carrots. We spent all morning working in his garden, harvesting various plants and vegetables. As soon as we were done, we started the canning process.
I’ve barely had time to think we’ve been so busy, which is kind of nice. The show we were watching last night was about a bank robbery.
I thought I was going to be OK. I mean, it’s fiction. It’s not real. No one was actually in danger, but the entire time it was playing, I wanted to throw up. I should have asked Whiskey to turn it off.
I promised myself when I came here that I was going to be different.
A stronger version of myself. Instead, the show started my nightmares again.
I should probably call my therapist or my mom.
But I don’t want to burden them with this.
It’s time that I overcome this. I am strong. I just have to believe that.
“Good. We’ll split the firewood next,” he says as if we haven’t been working all day.
“Is this a typical day for you?” I ask, exhausted. I want to stop and get a pizza. Plus, maybe another one of those cookies from Courage Cookies.
“One of them.” He shrugs. “The beauty of nature I’m surrounded by, the peace of not having other people around, the self-sufficiency I’ve achieved here—it all comes at a cost. The cost is hard, grueling work day after day.”
“You love this life,” I point out. It’s obvious from the way he talks to his plants to the way he helped an injured baby bunny we came across that he prefers to be outdoors in nature. “I don’t think civilization really suits you.”
He grunts in his agreement, and I follow him out to a clearing behind the cabin. I’ve seen this area before, circled it a couple of times on my runs, but I’ve never seen him out here working with his axe.
He’s got a large tree trunk that’s already been turned into smaller pieces, but even those small pieces are huge. “How many trees does it take you to get through the winter?”
“This isn’t for me. This is for Kringle Christmas Tree Ranch. I cut down the trees, turn it into firewood, and deliver it to them. They mix it with a proprietary blend of spices that make it smell like Christmas magic then sell it to their holiday visitors.”
“That sounds magical,” I tell him, and suddenly, I’m feeling sad that I won’t be here for the holidays. It would be fun to celebrate with Whiskey. I could get Bella a big rawhide bone for Christmas, and Tobias some new catnip toys.
“You’ll need this.” He holds out an axe. It’s heavier than I anticipated.
Before we left, he made me change my clothes.
I’m wearing his long-sleeved flannel shirt that I absolutely did not spend a moment sniffing before I changed into it.
Besides that, he also insisted on heavy-duty work gloves that don’t let me feel his touch when he passes it to me. “I’ve never done this before.”
“It’s easy. What you want to do is lean back. Let your swing come from your core,” he instructs.
I miss the log I’m aiming for entirely, the axe landing in the trunk of the tree.
I try to lift it out but it’s stuck pretty badly.
“This is harder than it looks,” I grunt as I try in vain to get it out.
Look, I’m not some delicate little thing, but this activity is nothing like I anticipated. “It’s so easy in the movies.”
“You just need to get the form down. It’ll get better after that.
Try again,” he encourages, plucking the axe up as if I embedded it in paper and not a tree trunk.
He’s done that all day. With every new task, he’s offered quiet encouragement and gentle reassurance.
It almost feels like he believes in me. A girl could get used to that feeling.
I try twice more, each time getting it stuck. Finally, I blow out a breath in frustration. “I’m not getting this. Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”
He nods and takes the axe from me.
“Wait, don’t you need to remove your shirt? It’ll help me understand the form better.”
He smirks like he knows this has nothing to do with form but reaches for the buttons on his own flannel.
He flicks them open slowly, unwrapping the material from his perfect torso.
Now that he’s not encased in material, I can see how broad his shoulders really are.
His tanned, toned arms that perfectly sculpted from hours spent cutting down trees are dotted with tattoos and scars.
His chest hair is light but still thick and plentiful.
My fingers itch to touch it. I want to know what it feels like.
But It’s the sight of the scars along his side that have me stepping forward.
I'm a makeup artist, and I’ve often done special effects work including scars.
But I’ve never seen scars quite like these.
He doesn’t flinch when I come to stand beside him. I keep my gaze locked on his as I gently trace the puckered lines of his skin. His breathing goes shallow.
“Shrapnel,” he grunts out the word.
I left my gaze drop, examining the lines that are proof this man before me is a warrior. “Does it still hurt?”
“Only inside my heart.”
I glance up at him, our gazes meeting. For the first time, we look at each other. Really look without pretenses or shields. There’s only the raw honesty of two people connecting in the middle of the forest on an autumn day underneath the endless blue sky.
“Lost a lot of good friends that day, men that were like brothers,” he explains, his normally gravelly tone going even deeper.
This is the most he’s ever told me about himself, and now I understand, we’re alike.
We’re both wounded, and we both sought refuge outside of civilization, away from the prying eyes of other people.
I don’t tell him I’m sorry. Those are hollow words. They don’t bring back the ones that were lost, and they aren’t a bandage that can be placed over wounds that still fester and bleed. “You were brave.”
“Or maybe just lucky.”
“Luck is about surviving. Bravery is about rebuilding,” I say.
Isn’t that why I’m here after all? I’m on a quest to prove to myself that I’m brave enough and strong enough to rebuild my life.
That one horrible moment doesn’t have to define me forever.
Maybe this cabin and this life is the same thing for him.
My confession leaves me feeling more naked than the trees that have shed their leaves already. This connection between us is too strong, too powerful. I don’t know if I can risk exploring it, so I drop my hand. I lick my suddenly dry lips. “Show me.”
He nods, as if accepting that the moment has passed and lifts the axe with ease. “Step back.”
I do that and watch him split the log with practiced ease, his muscles rippling. Wood chips go flying in every direction, and he reaches for the next one. His biceps flex as he hefts the axe a second time and splits the next one.
He sets up the third one and beckons me closer with a gesture. “Get over here. I’m going to teach you how to handle wood like a true lumberjill.”
I don’t know if he meant it to sound so dirty but my cheeks heat. I’ve never cared much for the idea of handling a guy’s wood, but I want to put my hands all over this lumberjack’s big log.
“Teach me what to do.” The words come out as a breathy whimper.
“It’s all about grip,” he says, showing me where to position my hands. “A little bit tighter than that. Yeah, don’t be afraid to give it a good squeeze.”
He steps into my space and puts his arms around mine. “You’re doing so good for me. Yeah, you want to squeeze it just right.”
“I’m worried about hurting you,” I confess right as his wood brushes my backside. His shoulders aren’t the only thing that’s massive.
“Now, angle and depth are important, so we’re going slow. Let your core muscles do the work for you.” He puts a hand on my midsection, and his touch makes me feel owned. “Deep breath in, right here. Take a moment to feel this. Really feel the stretch and burn.”
The only thing I’m feeling is light-headed from how close he’s standing and how good he smells. If I could bottle the lumberjack’s musk and sell it as a cologne, I’d be rich in a matter of days.
I whimper. The noise makes him think I’m afraid, not that I’m so needy liquid heat is pooling in my panties.
“You’re doing great. You’re almost there. Now bring it back down. Focus on entry, keep everything lined up so it feels natural.”
His hands are on top of mine, guiding me as together, we swing the axe through the air and into the piece of wood. It splits in two, and I imagine him doing the same to me. I exhale a shaky breath, and he curses quietly. He drops the axe on the ground at the same moment I turn in his arms.
I’m panting and desperate. His bare chest is so warm and solid beneath my fingertips. I’ve never felt safer than I do with his big hands gentle cradling my head. I’ve never been tiny or delicate, but with the way his strength and might is surrounding me, I feel like I am.
“You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen,” he whispers, his breath fanning across my warm face. The warmth has nothing to do with how hard we’ve worked today. No, it’s the way he’s staring at me, like I’m a treasure. His treasure to possess and plunder.
Underneath the fabric of the flannel shirt, my nipples are sharp points, and I press against him.
I’m eager for motion and friction and the feeling of sparks igniting.
But he’s determined to slow down and savor this moment.
To savor me in his arms. It’s as if he’s laid awake every night imagining this perfect moment.
“Sophie,” he breathes my name softly, a dream and a prayer all at once. Then he lowers his head. The first brush of his lips against mine is soft, like he’s trying to discover if this is a dream or real life.
He traces the seam of my lips with his tongue, groaning softly in the back of his throat.
The vibration hums from his body through mine, and this is what I’ve been craving.
This is what I’ve needed, to feel fully alive and in the moment.
To feel this protective mountain man holding me tenderly and devouring me fiercely.
I open my lips, and he sweeps his tongue inside, tracing my mouth. His tongue meets mine, stroking me sensually. When I groan, he does it again.
This is what Heaven feels like, I decide with my body pressed up against his. He’s so solid and muscular, and I can’t stop rubbing myself against him. His hands slide from my head down my back, sending shivers down my spine.
Then he’s gripping my ass through my jeans, kneading my fleshy mounds. A possessive growl erupts from his throat when he lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his hips. The moment we’re settled like this, our bodies connected everywhere, I can’t help but feel like this is right.
This is the peace and contentment that I’ve spent the past few months searching for. The realization is so startling that I pull away from him. I can’t even speak, my vision has gone so blurry that all I can do is suck in oxygen as I try to get my blood flowing in the right direction.
He doesn’t seem to care if he ever breathes again because he presses soft kisses to my jaw and neck, licking my skin like he can’t get enough of my taste. His words are a strangled whisper, “You’re so sweet, my perfect treat.”
“I need to go for a run.”
He stops kissing me. When he lifts his gaze to mine, his pupils are blown, and his eyes are hooded. If I said the word, I think he’d carry me into his cabin, lay me out in his big bed, and feast for hours. “You want to run now?”
“It helps me think,” I murmur, wiggling against him so he’ll put me down. Big mistake. I just grinded down on his hardness, and it feels so good. What would it feel like to have him moving inside of me, making love to me slowly?
He puts me on my feet. “Then let’s go.”
“You’re going with me?” I repeat, not sure I’m understanding what he’s saying right. My thoughts feel so jumbled from that kiss. I need to sort them out. I need to make sure that I’m not making a mistake.
He steps to the pile of logs we haven’t split yet. He puts on his flannel shirt, not bothering to button it. “Which path do you prefer?”
“Do you think you can keep up with me?” The challenge is out of my mouth before I can stop it. He’s fit, but just because he’s in shape, it doesn’t mean he knows how to run. Although, judging by that kiss, there’s nothing wrong with his cardiovascular system.
The grin he gives me lets me know he enjoys a challenge just as much as I do. “This lumberjack can go all night long.”