6. Claire
Claire
A fter lunch, I finally found a moment to myself.
The dining room buzzed with the remnants of conversations, clinking cutlery, and lingering scents of roasted chicken and warm bread.
I started clearing the tables, stacking plates, wiping down surfaces, and straightening chairs.
The routine gave me a strange comfort, a familiar rhythm in the midst of the day's chaos.
As I moved to the fireplace, the soft crackling had dwindled to a few glowing embers. I grabbed the poker and stirred them, releasing a small cloud of sparks. The warmth felt good against the chill creeping through the old inn. With a sigh, I turned to fetch more wood from the back.
Passing through the kitchen, I exchanged quick pleasantries with Jane, our cook, who was busy prepping for dinner. "Need anything while I'm back there?" I asked.
"Just more flour if you can manage," she replied without looking up from her dough.
I nodded and continued through the narrow hallway that led to the storeroom. The door creaked as I pushed it open, revealing shelves lined with canned goods and supplies. I glanced around but didn’t see any wood.
My heart sank as I realized the pile by the door was gone. "No wood," I muttered to myself, scratching my head. I knew this. I made a mental note. I guess the morning distracted me.
Stepping outside into the crisp air, I peered around for any signs of another stash but found nothing but bare ground where logs should have been stacked. A wave of frustration washed over me; winter was hardly the time to be running low on firewood.
I considered my options: make do without it for now or chop some more. Neither seemed particularly appealing at that moment.
I sighed, the sound lost in the stillness of the inn. Grabbing my winter coat from the peg near the door, I slipped it on and fastened the buttons. The cold metal of the doorknob sent a shiver up my spine as I turned it, stepping outside into the brisk afternoon air.
The path behind the inn wound through a small yard before disappearing into the forest. My boots crunched over patches of frost as I made my way toward the trees, each breath visible in the chilly air.
The forest had always been a sanctuary for me, a place where I could think and find peace among the towering pines and bare-branched oaks.
The deeper I ventured, the more I appreciated the quiet beauty around me. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the ground. The scent of pine mingled with the earthy aroma of decaying leaves, creating a heady mix that spoke of nature's cycle.
I kept my eyes peeled for fallen branches or dead trees that could be used for firewood. Every so often, I'd spot a promising log and add it to my growing pile. It wasn't long before my arms began to ache under the weight, but there was something satisfying about gathering wood myself.
Near a small clearing, I found an old oak that had toppled in a storm. Its trunk lay half-buried in snow, but it was dry enough to be useful. I set down my bundle and retrieved the ax from where I'd wedged it into my belt.
With measured swings, I began to chop at the oak's branches. Each thud echoed through the forest, sending small flurries of snow cascading from above. The rhythmic motion warmed me up, and soon enough, I had a decent pile of wood ready for transport.
I paused for a moment to catch my breath, leaning on the ax handle and gazing around at the serene landscape.
A sense of accomplishment settled over me.
Balancing the wood on my hip, I trudged back to the inn.
Each step felt heavier, the load pressing against my side.
The back of the inn had a small clearing where I chopped wood.
It was a spot that saw many early mornings and late afternoons of hard work.
I reached the clearing and dumped the pile with a grunt. My arms throbbed, but I still had work to do. The logs needed to be chopped into manageable pieces. Picking up the ax again, I eyed the first log, positioning it on the chopping block.
The first swing missed its mark, glancing off the side. Frustration flared up in my chest, but I steadied myself and took another swing. This time, the blade bit into the wood with a satisfying thunk. Slowly, methodically, I worked through each log.
My muscles protested with every swing, burning from the effort. Sweat dripped down my forehead despite the cold air. Each log seemed heavier than the last, each chop more challenging.
Halfway through the pile, my hands began to blister under my gloves. I ignored the discomfort and kept going, driven by necessity and a stubborn determination not to be bested by a stack of wood.
A particularly knotted log resisted my efforts, deflecting each blow with frustrating resilience. Gritting my teeth, I adjusted my stance and swung harder. The ax lodged deep in the knot, refusing to budge when I tried to pull it free.
"Come on," I muttered through gritted teeth, giving it a firm tug.
The ax came loose with a jerk that nearly threw me off balance. Determined not to let this piece of wood get the best of me, I swung again with all my strength. The log split with a crack that echoed through the clearing.
Breathing heavily, I surveyed the remaining logs and felt a small surge of satisfaction despite my aching muscles. With renewed resolve, I continued chopping until every piece was split and stacked neatly against the inn's wall.
I stood back for a moment, catching my breath and wiping sweat from my brow with a gloved hand. The stack of firewood was modest but sufficient for now.
"Not bad," a familiar, gruff voice said behind me.
I jumped and spun around, heart pounding.
He raised his hands, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Didn't mean to startle you."
It was Christian. His rugged features stood out against the winter backdrop. He had that look about him—sharp eyes, a firm jawline covered in a light scruff, and a physique that spoke of strength and endurance. He reminded me of those soldiers you see in movies—resilient and unyielding.
A blush crept up my cheeks, the warmth contrasting sharply with the cold air. "I didn’t hear you coming," I said, my voice catching slightly.
He shrugged, his eyes drifting to the neatly stacked woodpile. "You've been busy."
I nodded, trying to compose myself. "Had to get it done before nightfall. The inn’s guests won't appreciate a cold fireless night."
He stepped closer, examining my handiwork. His presence was intimidating yet oddly comforting. "Need any help with the rest?"
The offer surprised me, but I quickly shook my head. "I’ve got it under control. Thanks though."
"Stubborn."
"You already helped with the lights."
"I could help with this."
I stared at him, considering his offer. His expression was calm but resolute, and I could tell he wouldn't take no for an answer.
"If you're sure," I said, handing him the ax.
He took it with a nod and began unbuttoning his winter coat.
He shrugged it off and handed it to me. As I took it, I couldn't help but catch a whiff of his scent—earthy, with a hint of pine and something else, something rugged yet inviting.
It was intoxicating in its simplicity. I hoped my reaction wasn't too obvious as I clung to it, hoping to hide my fingers trembling from the cold.
Christian rolled up his sleeves and approached the chopping block. His muscles flexed as he positioned the first log, and I couldn't help but admire the way he moved—effortlessly powerful. He raised the ax and brought it down with precision, splitting the log cleanly in two.
"Nice swing," I commented, trying to sound casual.
He gave a small nod, not breaking his focus. "It's all about finding the right angle."
I watched him work, each swing of the ax methodical and efficient. The woodpile grew steadily as he chopped through the logs with practiced ease. Despite the cold air, a light sheen of sweat began to form on his brow, testament to the effort he put into each strike.
There was something mesmerizing about watching him work—an art to his movements that belied the raw strength behind them. A certain grace to it. He made it look easy, even though I knew from experience just how challenging chopping wood could be.
I busied myself tidying up the area, trying to keep my thoughts from wandering too far. The rhythmic sound of wood splitting filled the clearing, accompanied by the occasional grunt of exertion from Christian.
"How long have you been doing this?" I asked, genuinely curious.
He paused for a moment to wipe his brow with the back of his hand before answering. "Since I was a kid. I did it for my gran."
His words hung in the air, hinting at a past he rarely spoke about. It made me wonder what else lay beneath that stoic exterior.
"You’re good at it," I said simply.
He glanced at me, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Thanks."
As he continued chopping, I marveled at how effortlessly he fit into this place—this life—even if just for a moment. The stack of firewood grew taller by the minute, promising warmth for the inn's guests tonight.
When he finished, Christian stepped back, wiping the sweat from his brow with a satisfied look on his face. "I may have overdone it," he said, surveying the sizable stack of chopped wood.
"No," I replied quickly. "I love fires. In fireplaces, obviously. Not like, in forests or anything." I cleared my throat, feeling a bit foolish. "There's something about natural heat, the crackle, the flickering flames… it's beautiful."
There was a moment of silence between us, but it didn't feel awkward. It was as if the quiet spoke volumes on its own.
"So," I ventured, breaking the silence. "How was town?"
Christian shifted his weight and shrugged lightly. "Met with some friends."
I smiled at that. "That's good," I said, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks as I realized how awkward I sounded. "It's good to have friends."
He didn't respond immediately but gave a small nod, his eyes thoughtful.
"I should get back for dinner prep," I said, motioning toward the inn. "Thanks for chopping these?—"
"I can help take this back," he interrupted.
"I—if you're sure," I replied, taken aback by his offer.
He nodded again and began gathering an armful of wood. I did the same, feeling the weight of the logs press into my sides as we made our way back to the inn.
The walk was quiet but comfortable, each of us lost in our thoughts as we trudged through the frosty ground. The warmth of the inn grew nearer with every step, promising respite from the cold and a sense of accomplishment from our hard work.
As we reached the back door, Christian set down his load and turned to me. "Where do you want these?"
"Just inside by the fireplace," I directed.
We carried in several more loads until the woodpile inside was replenished and ready for use.
"Thanks again," I said once we were done, brushing my hands together to rid them of splinters and dirt.
He gave me a small smile in return before grabbing his coat from where I'd hung it on a peg near the door when we came inside with the first load. His scent lingered in the air as he shrugged it back on.
"Anytime," he replied.
We stared at each other a moment longer before I realized I was staring.
"Right," I said. "Well, I'll?—"
"Do you have tweezers, by chance?" he asked, cocking his head to the side.
"I'm sorry?"
"Tweezers?"
"Oh, yes," I said with a nod.
"I may have gotten a splinter."
"Sure thing," I said. "Here." I took his hand without thinking. "I have a first aid kit in my office."