Chapter 6 Maverick
Maverick
Chopping wood is harder than it looks, especially with a fucked-up knee—but that isn’t stopping me.
Three days together in this cabin, and I’ve almost lost my damn mind. I’ve already read the same magazine four times without absorbing a single word. Tried a jigsaw puzzle and gave up halfway through sorting the edge pieces.
So now I’m out here in the woods, trying to reclaim some part of my masculinity by pretending I’m the kind of man who splits firewood for fun.
I’m not.
The axe is heavier than I expected. Or maybe that’s just the knee talking, because I don’t actually recall ever wielding one. I adjust my stance, grit my teeth, and bring the blade down hard.
Thwack!
The log doesn’t split.
“Fuck.”
I brace again, this time channeling every bit of frustration I’ve been stockpiling since the season ended. Since the injury. Since I got benched. Since my agent suggested I take some much-needed time off.
Thwack!
The blade bites into the wood but doesn’t split it. Again. I flex my fingers, shake out my knee, and resist the urge to curse out loud.
That’s about when I hear it.
A laugh. Soft. Feminine. Definitely amused. Coming from somewhere behind me.
Of course. Annabelle.
I don’t even need to turn around. I can feel the smile in her voice as she calls out, “That’s gotta be the saddest excuse for lumberjacking I’ve ever seen.”
I grunt and roll my eyes toward the treetops. “Don’t you have wedding napkins to fold or something?” People to annoy? Rental agencies to call?
Annabelle strolls into my peripheral vision, hair up, wearing a hoodie that looks two sizes too big and leggings that are probably illegal in several states.
I drop my gaze and make direct eye contact with her camel toe before quickly peeling it away. Jesus. There should be a warning label on those things.
I adjust my grip and bring the axe down with a grunt.
Thunk.
“You know you’re using that thing wrong, right?” She taps her foot on the lawn.
“Jesus, woman,” I complain. “You want to do it?”
She folds her arms and cocks her hip. “Don’t come for me.
I think I know a bit more about this than you do.
” She barely pauses before continuing. “You’re holding the handle too low, and your stance is off.
You’re muscling through it like a caveman.
No finesse.” She steps closer, eyeing my sad little woodpile.
“It’s not about brute force. It’s about balance. Precision.”
“Is that right?” She is so fucking bossy. “Please, enlighten me.”
“Do you actually want me to show you?”
No. But I gesture with my hand for her to step closer, holding the axe out. “By all means. Be my guest.”
She marches over and yanks the axe out of my hand like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment. “Watch and learn,” she says, rolling her shoulders and squaring off like she’s about to swing a baseball bat instead of split a log.
“This should be good.” I’m not mocking her—swear I’m not.
She plants her feet, adjusts her grip, and wiggles her ass. Then—without so much as a grunt—she lifts the axe, swings, and crack—splits the log clean down the center like some kind of sexy woodland assassin.
“Boom,” she says, brushing an invisible speck of dust off her shoulder. “There we go.”
My jaw might actually be hanging open. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Annabelle extends the axe, and I take it.
I blink over at her perfectly halved log. Then at her. “How do you know how to do that?”
She shrugs. “Fall Fest. I managed four lumberjacks without a single lost limb. You think I didn’t learn a trick or two?”
I rake a hand through my hair, still processing. “I’ve never been so humbled.” Or so turned on at the same time . . .
My cabinmate regards me. “What do you need firewood for, anyway? It’s warm outside.”
There was an axe. I wanted to chop stuff. Roar out my frustrations into the woods.
I Am Man, Hear Me Roar.
You know, manly shit.
I hobble back to the woodpile with the axe and take up the same stance Annabelle had, hoist the axe, and take another swing.
I miss. She giggles.
I scowl at her over my shoulder. “I could do without the audience.” The last thing I want is her watching and judging and criticizing my technique.
“Unfortunately for you, I have nowhere to be.”
Dammit! “Why don’t you mosey on next door and get like—a spa treatment or something?” The axe hangs in my hand uselessly.
She snorts. “A spa treatment? I had no idea there was a resort so close to the cabin, or I probably wouldn’t have rented this place. It’s been one surprise after the next, hasn’t it?”
That is putting it mildly.
“Watching you is way more entertaining—no offense.”
Some taken. I shift my grip, settle into a better stance—like she showed me—and try again. This time, the axe actually lands on the log, but then sort of . . . bounces off.
“Oof.” Annabelle winces. “Points for enthusiasm.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not!” She holds up her hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Look, if it makes you feel better, you’re way more rugged than the guys I usually hang out with. They wouldn’t know which end of an axe to hold.”
She is so full of shit. “You’re buttering me up so I don’t toss you in the lake later, right?”
Her grin is pure sunshine. “You would toss me into the lake?”
Abso-fucking-lutely.
She steps closer, gesturing at my grip. “Let me show you.”
“Why do I feel like you’re about to destroy what’s left of my manhood?”
“Because I am,” she teases, arms going around me as if I were a toddler signed up for T-ball. “Relax your shoulders. Widen your stance. No, wider.”
“Wider? This is as wide as it gets!”
“Stop whining, I’m trying to keep you from splitting your foot open.”
Her hands brush my arms as she adjusts my elbows. Electricity zings through me, sharp and impossible to ignore, and I briefly wonder if she feels it, too, or if I’m just horned up because I’ve been holed up in the middle of nowhere—and haven’t banged for weeks.
No hookups while my knee is healing.
“Now, swing,” Little Miss Bossy Pants tells me.
I swing. And this time, the log cracks right down the middle.
Annabelle throws both arms in the air as if I just won an Olympic gold, whooping into the wind. “Look at you! You did it!”
I am a child who needs praise. I beam at her. “I’m a fast learner.”
She nods, crossing her arms. “Obviously you had a good teacher.”
“Uh-huh, guess I don’t have to chuck her in the water now.” I laugh. “Remind me to put you on the payroll.”
Annabelle studies me a few seconds before sighing. “Actually, you know what? I think I’ll take a break from teaching cavemen and get a tan.”
My brow arches. “A tan?”
She shrugs, already sliding off her hoodie to reveal a strappy little bikini top that makes my brain mush. “The lake’s right there, the sun’s out—why not?”
I clear my throat, gaze absolutely not lingering on the swell of cleavage peeking over her bright-pink top. “You know you’ll scare the fish away, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “Try not to chop your foot off while I’m gone.”
Annabelle saunters off down the lawn toward the dock, rearranging the deck chairs and moving the large umbrella stand. Spreads out a towel, rolls another one to use as a pillow, and—God help me—pushes her leggings down.
I pretend not to watch. But . . .
I have a working set of eyes, and the suit is bright pink, two bows tied at her hips, a second one behind her neck, and I’m 99 percent sure if she sneezes too hard, the whole thing is coming off.
She adjusts the straps, oblivious to the war waging in my brain, then plops down to rub sunscreen over her shoulders. I swear I can hear her humming.
“Hey,” I call after several seconds of stupidly ogling her. “You’re seriously going to lie there while I do all the work?”
Her hand lifts. Waves.
She ignores me, pushing a pair of sunglasses over her eyes.
I grip the axe, glaring down at the sad excuse for a woodpile. Let’s be honest: I’m about as good at chopping logs as I am at ballet, and my knee screams in protest.
Option one: Keep hacking away on these logs and pretending I don’t give a shit that Annabelle is sunbathing twenty yards away in a bikini made of dental floss.
Option two: Go down to the pier and annoy the shit out of her, because clearly, ignoring her is impossible.
She shifts on her towel, crossing one bare leg over the other, and the flash of hot pink between her thighs short-circuits my brain.
Yeah. Option two.
I slam the axe into the stump and head down the yard, knee twinging with every step, but adrenaline (or stupidity) pushes me on.
The closer I get, the faster my heart beats, and honestly, it’s been weeks since anything has excited me the way sparring with Annabelle does. She’s sassy, bratty, bossy—and sexy. A ticking time bomb of temptation.
Here for a good time, not for a long time, same as me.
Lethal combo.
My steps rattle the boards under my feet, the whole dock shivering as I walk, demanding her attention whether I mean to or not as I drag the empty deck chair closer to her with a satisfied grunt.
She turns her head in my direction. “Lose interest in lumberjacking already?”
Totally. Being a lumberjack sucks.
“No, I just realized the view was better over here.”
She lowers her sunglasses to peer over the lenses, her eyes dancing with mischief. “You had better not be flirting with me.”
Is that what that was?
Is that what that was? Maybe. Maybe not. Damned if I’m going to admit it to her.
I tilt my head, shrugging lazily. “I’m just making an observation.”
My roommate laughs. “Whatever you say, Mav.” She pauses. “Know what I’ve been wondering? Does Maverick have a last name?”
I rub a hand over my jaw, feeling the rough edge of stubble. “Of course I’ve got a last name.”
“Well?” She shifts, waiting. “What is it?”
I hesitate. A quick Google search would have given her the answer, but apparently my new friend has no interest in secretly prying into my private life.
“McBride.”
“Maverick McBride?” She pieces the names together, and I can hear the wheels turning in her head.
“Sounds like you should be riding a motorcycle, or fighting crime on TV.” Annabelle rolls to her stomach, props herself up on one elbow, and lowers the sunglasses.
“So your parents just liked the name Maverick, or is it a nickname?”
“It’s a nickname.”
Her brows go up. “And?”
“My name is Callum.”
She blinks over at me. Blinks some more.
“Callum McBride.” She repeats, rolling the words over her tongue. “That’s . . . It’s so . . .” Bites her lip. “Scottish sounding.”
I nod. “Aye.”
Hardcore Scottish, as a matter of fact. Both sets of my grandparents still live in a quiet corner of the Highlands, in the same little stone cottages my parents were raised in.
Pubs. Sheep. Everyone knows your name—and your entire family history going back six generations.
My parents got married and moved to the States as newlyweds and used to take me to visit at least once a year.
Annabelle’s eyes widen. “Like—bagpipes and castles and kilts Scottish?”
My laugh is short. “Yes.”
She presses her lips together, fighting a grin. “Do you own a kilt?” She sounds too hopeful.
“Aye. Two of them.” Both tartan.
Annabelle’s face lights up with absolute delight. “Oh my God, I knew you were hiding something interesting.”
“I’m not hiding anything.” And owning kilts certainly isn’t the most interesting thing about me.
She wiggles her brows. “So . . . you’ve actually worn them?”
I give her a look. “Yes.”
“Wait.” She nibbles her lower lip again. “And what about the . . . you know.” She makes a vague hand gesture as if expecting me to read her mind. “Underpart.”
My brows furrow. “Underpart of what?”
“Do you wear anything underneath?”
“No.” Of course not.
She props her chin on her elbow, eyes bright and dancing. “I think I would pay good money to see you in a kilt.”
“You wouldn’t have to.” I shrug. “You can probably find plenty of photos online.”
She lets out one of those big, unapologetic laughs that I can’t help but notice makes her tits jiggle. “That’s not the same, and you know it.”
“Oh? What are you saying?” I lean back in the chair, folding my arms, letting a grin tug at the corner of my mouth. “You want a private show?”