Chapter Nine
Kara
Stupid alpha male bullshit, I thought as I worked, clearing the gutter of a combination of needles, cones, dust, and who knew what else. It was disgusting, and a chore I had always hated. But clearly Grant wanted a dick-measuring contest, and I wasn’t about to back down.
A spot of bright blue caught my eye in a sea of green and brown.
It looked like a feather. There was a good sign if I ever saw one.
Bird feathers were supposed to be good luck.
I reached for the feather and picked it up, realizing too late that it was attached to a bird’s wing, a very dead bird’s wing.
I flung it to the side, luckily avoiding it landing in our fresh stain. “Shit, shit, shit. I touched a dead bird. Oh my God, that is not a good luck sign.”
I descended the ladder too fast, kicking myself for not having put on the damn gloves. My boot slipped a few rungs from the bottom, and I braced to hit the ground. Instead of the hard wood of the deck slamming into me, I felt Grant’s strong hands wrap around my hips behind me.
“I got ya,” he said with a grunt as my weight hit him.
I let my heart rate calm for a moment before I looked over my shoulder. His chest was pressed firmly against my back, his hands still holding me tight. He smelled like hard work and man. “Are you freaked out from the fall or the bird?” he asked, his breath skating across my cheek.
I huffed a laugh. “Definitely the bird. I need to boil my hands.”
“Probably a good idea. Gloves would have been a better idea but—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” I snapped, but there was no bite to it. Not when it felt this good to be held against his hard body.
Tuck, who had been sleeping in the shade under a tree, wandered over to see what the fuss was about, and immediately descended on the bird carcass.
“Tuck, no,” Grant said, stepping away from me and toward the dog.
I immediately missed the heat and feel of him.
Quicker than I would’ve thought possible for an old dog, Tuck flopped down on what used to be a stellar jay and started rolling around on it.
Grant hung his head. “Add bathing Tuck to the chore list.”
I pushed my pride aside and let Grant finish cleaning the gutters—this time with gloves. Luckily, the roof didn’t need any major repairs, so after washing my hands a hundred times and a quick lunch, we moved on to chore number three.
We had to get it done quickly since we had a very smelly dog to contend with before the sun went down.
“Have you used an axe before?” Grant asked.
“Not competently. Uncle Walt only let me use the hatchet.”
He snorted. “Well, let’s change that.”
He held the axe out to me, and I took the rough handle.
“This thing is heavy,” I said, resting it against my shoulder.
He nodded. “The weight of the axe does the work.”
“Yeah, but I still have to heave it up first,” I grumbled.
Grant didn’t look sympathetic. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Remember, let the axe do the work. Don’t muscle it.”
I positioned myself the way he said and lifted the axe. It wobbled slightly. My circuit class at the gym didn’t exactly prepare me for trying not to cut my foot off.
“Relax your grip,” he said.
“I am relaxed,” I snapped. “I just don’t want to turn the axe into a projectile.”
“You’ll tire yourself out, you’re strangling it.”
“I’ll strangle you,” I muttered.
Rather than retort, he stepped closer.
Much closer.
His boots scuffed the dirt behind mine, and then his hands were there, adjusting my grip on the handle. His fingers brushed mine, and my brain went completely offline.
“Like this,” he murmured, his chest solid against my back. “Let gravity provide the force.”
I struggled to comprehend the instructions with his body pressed against me.
How did he still smell good after dealing with wood stain and gutter filth?
I managed to refocus long enough to let him guide my arms up over my head and then let the weight of the axe fall, splitting the log cleanly in half.
A strange sense of achievement flooded my veins, and I looked over my shoulder at Grant, grinning wide. Life wasn’t always easy but dammit I could do hard things.
His face was closer to mine than I’d expected. I could’ve leaned forward just an inch and my lips would have brushed his.
I swallowed, wanting to do just that but knowing I shouldn’t. This situation was already enough of a mess. Acting on this urge would make it worse. Even if his lips looked really soft beneath all that stubble. Even if I desperately wanted to know what that stubble would feel like against my skin.
He cleared his throat and took a decisive step back and to the side. “One down. A hundred to go. Keep chopping.”
I did, throwing myself into the work with more force than necessary, partly to burn off nervous energy and partly to avoid looking at him.
Each swing landed harder than the last, the crack of splitting wood echoing through the trees.
Grant watched silently, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
I could feel his gaze on me like a physical thing, even as I avoided looking in his direction.
My arms started to ache, a dull burn settling into my shoulders, but I refused to complain.
I refused to give him the satisfaction. If this was a test, I was passing it on sheer stubbornness alone.
When I finally paused to catch my breath, I realized Grant had moved closer again.
Not crowding me this time, just close enough that I could sense his presence.
“You’re doing good,” he said.
The praise hit harder than it should have. I nodded once, afraid that if I spoke, something honest might slip out. That I might admit how good it felt to be seen as capable. How good it felt to be here, doing something real, instead of untangling the wreckage of my old life.
“Let me take a turn,” he said, taking the axe from my hands. I stepped back to watch and catch my breath. Whatever this was—competition, cooperation, attraction—it wasn’t going away. And as the pile of chopped wood grew bigger, I was finding it harder to pretend I didn’t feel something for Grant.