Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Tessa
Itry not to be disappointed in the way Holt rushes out without breakfast. More importantly, I try not to take it personally.
I may not have a lot of experience with men, but I know enough to know when a man desires me. And I didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on me this morning, dark and heavy before he forced it away. Or the tension in his jaw.
Or the way he ran out of the room as if I was going to burn him.
Maybe I would have.
The thought makes me grin because, either way, Holt’s reaction to me this morning was not that of a man who isn’t interested.
Quite the opposite.
I eat breakfast alone and wrap up the leftovers to put in the fridge for him before cleaning up the dishes and wiping down the table.
While I’m running the rag over the tabletop, I again notice the craftsmanship.
The wood is smooth beneath my fingers, the grain rich and warm, and the inlay has been crafted with so much precision that it’s impossible for me not to be impressed by the skill that must have been involved in creating it.
I glance around the room, suddenly seeing the cabin with new eyes. All of the furniture is solid. Built to last.
Built by Holt.
There’s still so much I don’t know about him.
But I plan on finding out.
I toss the rag into the sink and wipe my hands on my leggings.
He did say to make myself at home. And curiosity has always been my weakness.
Besides, it’s not like I have anything else to do.
In Holt’s room, I dig through my duffel bag for a hoodie, but my eyes land on one of his discarded flannel shirts hanging over the back of the chair in the corner.
That’ll do.
As soon as I slip my arms through the fabric, I’m enveloped by his scent.
The shirt is huge on me. Even when I roll up the sleeves, I’m completely dwarfed by the flannel. It’s perfect.
At the front door, I tug my white tennis shoes on but hesitate before heading out. They’re the only shoes I have, and the mud beyond the porch looks serious.
I find a pair of discarded rubber boots that are way too big for me, but perfect for me to slide on over my tennis shoes.
I’m sure I look ridiculous, but I don’t care as I make my way outside.
The air is crisp and cool. It smells fresh in a way that even the biggest rainstorm in the city can’t replicate. I pause for a moment to fill my lungs.
Even though it’s still raining, there’s something peaceful and beautiful about the forest that calms me.
I pull the shirt up over my head as I make my way down the path to the workshop behind the house. The sound of power tools reaches me before I slip inside the barn-style door.
With his back to me, Holt doesn’t notice me right away. I don’t want to startle him while he’s working with the tools, so I’m careful to stay perfectly still, which affords me the chance to watch him unguarded.
He’s completely absorbed by what he’s doing. Clearly in his element, he looks focused, his sure, steady movements running the wood carefully through the machine over and over again.
There’s something undeniably attractive about a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
Finally, he clicks the machine off and runs his hand over the board he’s been working with.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I say lightly.
He looks up and jerks around, surprise flashing across his face before it settles into something more guarded.
Something almost careful.
And just like that, I know I made the right choice by coming out here.
I take another step into the shop and release my grip on the flannel, so it slides over my shoulder a little bit.
Holt’s nostrils flare, and he looks away, back to the board in his hand. “I’m working.” His voice is low, almost a growl.
“I can see that.” I lean against the doorjamb and let my eyes rake slowly over him. “I like watching you work.”
He sucks in a breath and shakes his head before setting the board down and turning around to face me properly.
“I’m done,” he announces, even though I’m sure he’s lying. “You should go back inside.”
“Why don’t you come inside if you’re done out here?”
That earns me a look. Not sharp or amused. Something laced with danger. I can’t help but like the fact that I’m pushing his buttons.
He flicks the switch on the machine. “I need to go split some wood. You can wait inside.”
He reaches for his jacket and tries to move past me, but I step in front of him. “You keep saying that,” I say. “But I’d rather be outside.”
“It’s still raining.”
“So?” I shrug. “I don’t mind getting wet.” I raise my brow, and again, he growls and shakes his head.
I know I’m playing with fire when it comes to Holt. But I can’t seem to stop myself. In fact, every time he objects or tries to throw up walls between us with his gruffness, it only makes me want to try harder.
I am nothing if not persistent.
Once I set my mind to something, I get it. And I have definitely set my mind on Holt.
Holt
She’s a brat, and she’s way over her head with me. Even if she doesn’t seem to realize it.
The shy, quiet girl from the night before has been completely replaced by a much more confident, sassy version of Tessa, and it’s clear I’m not going to be able to tell her to do anything.
I take a step back, and my eyes flick to the oversized flannel hanging off her—my flannel—and then quickly away again because it looks too good on her.
“Suit yourself,” I mutter, already moving past her to the door.
The workshop is where I come to settle my mind and focus. Working with wood, shaping it and bending it to my will, has never failed to center me.
Until today.
Maybe the physical exertion of chopping wood will do the trick.
Outside, the rain has eased to a steady drizzle. The air is cool and fresh, and though spring is in the air, its promise isn't guaranteed; an early-season storm like this could still easily turn to snow up here in the mountains.
The woodshed is just beyond the shop. I built a shelter over my wood years ago to keep the heavy snow load off during the winter, and it also comes in handy during weather like this.
Logs are stacked neatly beside the chopping block, with already-split pieces lining the walls of the space.
There’s already plenty split, but that doesn’t matter. I can already feel my muscles aching for the release of physical exertion.
I shrug out of my jacket and toss it aside before reaching for the axe and setting up my first log.
I don’t hesitate as I swing the heavy maul and crack into the log.
The strike is powerful and clean, splitting the wood straight down the middle.
My movements are efficient and practiced, muscle memory taking over as I lose myself to the rhythm of the work.
But I’m not so lost that I don’t notice Tessa. Instead of sitting back and watching, she’s made herself useful by gathering up the split pieces and stacking them neatly with the others.
I don’t draw attention to it because it’s best if I don’t draw attention to her at all. Not with the way my body is reacting to her mere presence, so I pretend not to notice and keep splitting wood, each swing of the axe stronger than the last.
Soon, I’m overheating, and without thinking, I strip out of my shirt and toss it to the side with my jacket before continuing with the task.
I’m mid-swing when, out of the corner of my eye, I see the familiar flannel land in the pile with my own shirt and jacket.
Somehow, I manage to finish the swing without chopping my foot off and turn just in time to see Tessa pulling her T-shirt up and over her head.
My eyes lock on the black satin bra and her firm, round tits spilling out of the cups right as she shakes her blonde hair free from the shirt and adds it to the pile of clothes in the corner.
“What the hell are you doing?” I move for the discarded clothing. “Put your shirt back on.”
“Why?” She puts her hands on her hips and thrusts her tits out. “You don’t like what you see?”
The raging hard-on in my jeans is evidence that I very much like what I see, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Tessa.” My voice holds a warning as I hold out the shirt and lock onto her eyes, refusing to look at her amazing tits again.
Her eyes dart down to my crotch, and when she looks up again, her lips curl into a knowing smirk. “I think you do like what you see.”
She takes a step toward me. Just one, but she might as well be standing inches away from me, given the way my body is rioting. She tilts her head, and her long blond hair spills over one shoulder to tease the top of her smooth breast. “Besides, you don’t have a shirt on.”
Her eyes travel down my body, reminding me that I am also shirtless. It’s something I do without thinking when I chop wood. Of course, I don’t usually have an audience.
“That’s different.”
Her lips quirk. She knows she’s getting to me, pushing me to my limit.
“Tessa,” I say again. “I mean it. Put your shirt back on.”
She spins around so quickly that for a moment I think she might actually do as I say, and a flash of unreasonable disappointment flares through me at the thought of her covering up those gorgeous tits.
But before I can declare my victory, she bends to pick up a piece of wood and sticks that legging-clad peach of an ass out.
She takes her time picking up the split sticks, wiggling and swaying with the movement, before turning and looking at me over her shoulder.
“And if I don’t,” she says, “will you make me?”
My grip tightens on the shirt she won’t take.
Every instinct in me screams to shut this down as quickly as I can and put distance between us before I do something that can’t be undone.
But she’s not backing down.
She’s standing again, watching me now. Really watching. Like she’s waiting to see which part of me wins: the man who knows better or the man who wants her.
She’s provoking me on purpose, testing the edges of my restraint and pushing to see how far I’ll go before I snap.
Like it’s a game to her.
But something in the way she’s looking at me tells me it’s not a game at all.