NINE. #2
The pun lands, lame as it is, but I don’t acknowledge it. “Come on,” I say, thrusting the handle toward her again, sharper this time. She catches it before it can bump her, so I grab another log and set it upright on the stump. “Have at it.”
“I don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“If I help you, will you at least try?” I ask.
She stares at me, weighing the offer, then nods slowly. “Why not,” she says dryly.
“You want one hand up by the head,” I explain as I point to her axe, then demonstrate with my own hands on an imaginary handle, “and the other at the base.”
Her eyes widen instantly, amusement flashing across her face as her cheeks flush a soft pink. “The head and the base?”
My breath catches. I hadn’t really thought about how the words would sound coming out of my mouth in front of her.
“Mhm.”
She blinks at me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with her or if the double entendre is entirely accidental. Honestly, I’m not sure either—my mind seems to be slipping away from me, one careful inch at a time.
“Okay,” she says after a beat. “So then what?”
“Lift it over your shoulder.” I demonstrate again, slower this time, and her eyes immediately trail along my arms, following the flex of muscle as I raise the imaginary axe.
I know she looks. She does it all the time—steals glances when she thinks I’m not paying attention—but under this kind of intensity, with her standing so close, I find myself hyper-aware of every movement I make.
“When you let it fall, you want gravity to do most of the work, but you gotta keep it steady. So on the downswing your top hand slides down the handle to meet the bottom one. Your hands should be together at the base when you finish. Just aim the blade at the log and hit your mark.”
“Mhm,” she murmurs, the sound deep in her throat, her eyes still locked on me.
I swallow hard, replaying my own words in my head. Heat crawls up the back of my neck in response to the way she’s looking at me.
“Right,” she says, voice quieter now. She stares at me hard as she slides one hand up toward the top of the axe. “The head,” she repeats, then moves her other hand lower. “And the base.”
My jaw clenches tight. Fuck. No wonder she’s looking at me like that. The words hang between us, and I can feel the shift in the air. Like one wrong move could tip everything over the edge.
“Over your shoulder,” I manage, my voice coming out more breathless than I intend, “and drop.”
She lifts the axe, holds it there for a second—eyes steady on the log—then lets it fall. Her hand slides down the handle just like I told her, but the blade catches only the side of the log, nicking it before the whole thing topples sideways onto the ground.
I lean over without thinking, grab another log, and set it back up on the stump. She stares at me, waiting for something—criticism, encouragement, anything—but I can’t find words. If I open my mouth now, I’m afraid whatever comes out will be stupid or too honest or both.
She lifts the axe again, her movements smoother this time, more confident.
She lets it fall, and the blade strikes closer to the center, splitting the log partway through.
She struggles to yank it free, so I step in close and reach around her.
I close my hand over hers on the handle and press the log down hard against the stump until it cracks the rest of the way.
Only then do I register how near we are—our hands overlapping, my chest brushing her shoulder, the heat of her body radiating against me. I look down at her lips, lingering on the soft curves, the slight downward turn that makes me imagine biting down just hard enough to feel her gasp.
“Slide your top hand down a little faster next time,” I say, forcing myself to step back.
Her lips part slightly. Her chest rises and falls in heavy, visible breaths. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. What the fuck am I even saying right now?
“Faster,” she repeats, almost a whisper.
I nod slowly. We hold each other’s gaze until she looks away first. I shift my stance, trying to adjust the sudden tightness in my jeans, but it’s useless. I started this. I have no idea how to finish it without making everything worse.
She lifts the axe again, and this time there’s no hesitation at the top. She lets it drop and slides her hand down faster just like I told her. The log splits clean in half and the two pieces tumble apart.
A grin breaks across her face, so I pick up another log and set it upright. She swings again—perfect form, clean split—and her grin widens. Her eyes light up with each success, and whatever tension was eating her up earlier seems to ease.
“I get it,” she says after a dozen more logs, breathless and beaming. “I did need this.”
I place another log, but she sighs and holds the axe to me. “My arms will fall off if I keep going.”
“Tappin’ out?” I take it easily and swing it over my shoulder.
“I won’t be able to use my arms tomorrow,” she admits, laughing softly. I can tell she’s fit, but she’ll definitely need more muscle to keep up with this kind of work long-term. “Thanks for this.”
“Mhm,” I mutter.
I let my eyes travel over her face—sweat glistening on her forehead and down the column of her neck, her skin flushed and shining in all the right places. My tired mind lingers too long, tracing paths I shouldn’t be imagining.
“This tension isn’t good for business,” she says, pointing her finger between us, not even pretending to deny the crackling energy that’s been building.
“Mhm,” I mumble again.
She licks her bottom lip and bites down, trying—and failing—to keep the smile from spreading too wide. “I’m serious,” she says, but her voice wavers like she’s not entirely convinced herself.
“I know,” I tell her. She narrows her eyes, like she’s trying to decide whether I actually do.
“Alright. Well… I should get going.” She takes a slow step back, then another when I don’t move to stop her. She’s right. This isn’t good for business. But I think it might already be too late for that.
“Take the walkie with you,” I call as she backs all the way to the corner of the barn.
She stops. “Why?”
“Just in case,” I say.
She presses her lips together in a tight smile. Then shakes her head. “You’re trouble, Mr. Brooks,” she says.
I toss the axe down hard. The blade sticks straight into the ground. I take a step forward—every instinct screaming at me to grab her and give in to whatever this is—but she jumps, spins on her heel, and takes off with a breathless laugh.
I follow her around the bend, but by the time I reach the barn door she’s already running down the hill with the walkie in her hand. She glances back over her shoulder with a wide smile, then gives me a quick, daring wink before disappearing out of sight.
God.
I want her.
I’m not sure I can even hide it after this.