Axes and Ohs (Axford Brothers)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ERICK

I’m slumped on a stool at the bar at a little restaurant called Watchfire, which is right next door to my hotel.

The restaurant’s all wood floors, exposed beams, and a big-ass fireplace.

It’s decorated with fake autumn leaves and smells like cozy things—bread and apples, woodsmoke and cinnamon.

It’s one Live, Laugh, Love sign away from being over-the-top cheesy, but it toes the line.

When I got to my hotel a few hours ago, the place was hopping.

But according to Ames, the guy who’s tending bar, the crowd moved on to some big party across town where Winsome will crown their new Big Dill, which is like a homecoming queen but with pickles, to celebrate the end of their big pickle-themed town festival.

Yes, pickle festival.

No, I know. I hear you. And… honestly, I felt the same.

I’m sitting here expecting at any moment a Hallmark movie director will yell, “Cut! Sandy, please tone down the cutesy wholesome vibe. Let’s make it slightly believable.

” And yet the people here are so genuinely, unapologetically happy, I can’t even roll my eyes at them.

In fact, I’m a little envious.

What I’m realizing of late—by late, I mean, since I slumped here two gin and tonics ago—is that despite being a twenty-four-year-old college graduate with a packed social calendar and a great career (until two days ago), I don’t actually know what I’m into.

I’ve been too focused on avoiding what I’m not supposed to be into.

Pathetic, right?

As I sit here nursing my third drink, it occurs to me that it’s Sunday night, which means right about now, I should be at Pandora D’Auffre’s “Love, Unmasked” Halloween party at Gotham Hall in the city.

I had a costume planned—a sleeveless cream suit accessorized with a golden laurel wreath, a golden bow, and a quiver of golden arrows.

It looked fantastic on me, and that’s not bragging, just facts.

Call it the return on investment of my father marrying a supermodel to secure the Nelson genetic legacy.

No doubt tomorrow or even later tonight, I’d have had a dozen text messages saying how stunning I’d looked.

But—and this is crucial—none of the people I’d planned to see or be seen by has called to ask where I am or when I’ll be arriving.

None of them know I’m here in Winsome, Vermont, hiding amongst the pickle worshippers.

And they won’t be too upset that at this point, I wouldn’t be able to get back to New York in time for the party, even if I wanted to.

But honestly… I don’t want to. Not right now, for damn sure.

I’m not sure exactly what I thought would happen when I confessed to my dad (who was also my boss) that I was the one who sabotaged the Nelson Group’s big-deal marketing campaign for Rise Athletics last spring and that Griffin Mercer, the man my dad fired over the incident, was innocent.

Then again, doing things without considering the outcome is kind of my brand.

What did happen was that Dad yelled at me (deservedly), voluntold me to resign my position (ditto), and treated me to five full hours of the coldest and most disapproving silent treatment while his driver brought us to this Vermont backwater so I could apologize in person.

And don’t get me wrong, Griffin deserved a face-to-face apology. Hell, he deserved not to spend the last few months being reviled on TikTok for something I had done.

But my confession time hadn’t ended there. Once I’d started talking, apparently, I couldn’t stop.

I’d also burned my relationship with my father to the ground by admitting that I’d fucked with the campaign because I loathed Rise Athletics’ “family values” bullshit, and I wanted them to fire the Nelson Group so we wouldn’t be associated with them.

Then I’d salted the fields by saying I was going to find a career in early childhood education, which had been my major in college.

It was a lot for one day, let me just tell you.

After delivering my apology, I’d sat in my hotel room for hours, mulling things over, and I couldn’t decide if the nausea cramping my belly was regret over what I’ve done…

or excitement that now I finally have the excuse to build a different kind of future for myself.

One where the things I do have nothing to do with my father’s expectations or wondering what people in my social circle will think of me.

Regret would be the smart choice, right? I should be thinking about how to get back in my father’s good graces because without him, I have no job, no apartment, no life.

But I’m pretty sure it’s not.

Ames asks me if I want another drink, and I say, “Yes. Please.”

“You want food with that?” Ames asks, eyes narrowing just a little. “We’ve got wings. And I make a mean grilled cheese.”

The implication—that I’m drinking a lot on an empty stomach—is clear, but getting drunk is kind of the point. “Right now, I’d like to forget my own name for a little while,” I say. “It’s been kind of a rough day.”

Ames snorts. “Fair enough. I’ve had one of those, myself.” He cocks his head. “Girl trouble? Guy trouble?”

“Ah, no,” I say honestly. “No guy, therefore no trouble.”

“You’re smarter than me, then.” He hands over my refill.

This is hard to believe after the week I’ve had. “What happened to you?”

He shakes his head. “Not worth discussing. Just… never make the mistake of falling for a friend. Especially not a straight one.”

I open my mouth to ask further questions when someone settles onto the stool beside me.

“Ames,” a strangely familiar voice teases. “What’s this? Tending your own bar tonight? Thought restaurant owners didn’t lower themselves to do this stuff.”

Ames’s smile is a little brittle, but he heaves an exaggerated sigh as he wipes down a glass.

“They do when the rest of their employees begged for the night off so they could go to the Hello, Winsome pageant and watch my brother humiliate himself in the name of love.” He shakes his head, aggrieved.

“Holden better be filming, damn it, and not do that thing where he forgets he’s recording and shoots a thirty-minute video of the inside of his pocket.

It’s the first time Beckett’s ever been in love. Baby’s first romance.”

The guy beside me chuckles, a rich, warm sound. “Yeah, I’m gonna need a copy of that Beckett video if it exists. Leverage for next time the boss tries to make me do equipment maintenance.”

I turn my head just slightly, and my stomach does a slow flip when I recognize the man on the stool.

He’s the lumberjacky guy who rescued me at Griffin’s house earlier today. The one who’d given me an encouraging smile while I delivered my apology… and then a ride to town after I sent my father back to the city alone. The guy who saved me from my impulsive behavior.

The guy turns to me and nods, and his coffee-dark eyes don’t seem surprised to see me. “We meet again.”

“Oh!” I summon a smile. “Carlos, right? I’m—”

“Erick. Yeah. I remember.” He blushes a little and shoots me a boyish grin that’s kind of infectious. “This morning was, ah… weird. So I wanted to come over and check on you. See how you were holding up.”

I frown. “You’ve known me a total of ten minutes.”

Carlos shrugs. “So? There a rule about being friendly where you’re from?”

The question hits me funny because… yeah, where I’m from, there are rules about everything.

Rules about who to know and who to be seen with.

Rules about what you can get away with—just about anything, if you have enough money.

Rules about what you’re allowed to do with your life—pretty much what you’re told, if your money isn’t yours but your family’s.

Genuine concern from a stranger isn’t just rare in my world, it’s downright suspicious. But looking at Carlos’s face, I truly believe he’s not angling for anything. He’s really just… being nice.

Carlos orders a beer and something called maple cornbread, and while he’s talking to Ames, I steal glances at him out of the corner of my eye.

The man’s ridiculously attractive, but in a way that’s completely different from most guys I know.

He’s tall and not exactly thick or thin, but somewhere in the perfect, muscly middle…

which I guess makes sense for a lumberjack.

His hands are scarred and calloused, presumably from doing whatever the heck lumberjacks do all day.

Swing an axe? Is that still a thing? The dim, golden light of the bar glints off dark hair with just a hint of curl at the end and makes his skin glow.

When he reaches for his wallet, his worn flannel shirt lifts to reveal a strip of tanned, toned stomach, and a burst of his scent—pine sap and clean man—hits me full-on.

Other things about him are… well, harder to gauge.

Ordinarily, that blush, that little smile, the fact that he took the seat right next to me in an otherwise empty bar, the way he holds my gaze just a beat too long when most straight guys would glance away… those would all be signs a man was interested.

But this guy’s giving off zero meet me in the bathroom energy.

The idea that he truly came here to check up on me is so sweet, it gives me a sugar rush.

“Sorry,” I tell Carlos when he’s done ordering. “I didn’t mean to sound snippy.”

“You don’t have to apologize, man.” He wraps both hands around the beer bottle Ames places in front of him, which looks comically small in his hands. And I have this moment where I stare at his fingers and wonder what they’d feel like against my skin.

No, Erick. Bad, Erick. No more impulsive decisions.

“So, uh, this afternoon, I couldn’t help but overhear you come clean to your dad about messing up the ad campaign and letting Griffin take the fall for it. Takes balls to admit you did wrong.”

I huff. “Not really. What would take balls is coming clean right off the bat. Coming out with it months after the fact because I couldn’t live with myself anymore? Eh.” I tilt my hand up and down.