10. Lana
ten
Lana
THUNK—the sound echoes through my cabin. Yesterday, I decided to stop hiding from Marx and take back my life, starting with my cabin—now I’m beginning to regret that decision.
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, praying for patience, only to be met with the steady rhythm of wood being split nearby. I throw back the blankets, ready to do battle with my next-door neighbor.
I stomp to the window and immediately regret it. Less than fifty yards away, Marx, shirtless, chops wood, looking like every romance girl’s lumberjack fantasy.
My heart pounds as I close the curtain, trying to block him out. Unfortunately, my body betrays me, and I peek again. His arms flex as the axe falls, cleaving the wood perfectly in two. He glances up and catches me watching. He smirks, and I drop the curtain, sliding down the wall out of his view.
"This is harassment." I lift my chin even as my nerves flutter.
Twenty minutes later, I storm outside wearing pajama pants, boots, and a coat.
Marx sees me approaching and lowers the axe. "Morning."
"Is it?" I hold his gaze, keeping my voice steady.
He glances toward the sky. "Technically."
"Why are you chopping wood at six in the morning?" I press my lips together, trying to suppress a growl.
"Needed wood." He shrugs.
"For what?"
"Fire," Marx answers too quickly.
"You have electricity." I curl my fingers into my palms to keep from slapping that smug look off his face.
"I like the fireplace." His mouth twitches.
"Of course you do." I throw my hands up.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you didn't know which end of an axe to hold three months ago." I arch an eyebrow, daring him to challenge me.
"I learned." Marx glances toward the door, then back at me.
"Why?"
His smile fades, and I notice the shadows under his eyes. "I had a lot of things I needed to work out."
I can’t deal with this right now. "I need coffee," I mutter.
"I made some." Marx lifts both hands in surrender.
I stare at him. "Are you inviting me into your cabin?"
"Coffee—that's all."
"I'd rather lick the axe," I mutter under my breath, but when I see his eyebrow rise, I know he heard me. "Forget I said that."
"Trying." He smiles.
"You're smiling." I narrow my eyes.
"Trying not to." Marx holds my gaze.
"You're terrible at it." I tap one boot against the ground, and for a second, it feels like us—the old us. The week when every conversation turned into teasing, every teasing remark became a look, and every look became a kiss. I feel the memory between us, and by the look in his eyes, so does he.
His smile fades. "Lana." Marx runs a hand over his beard.
I step back. "No."
"I need to tell you why." Marx's shoulders tense under his shirt.
"Three months too late." I lift my chin even as my nerves flutter.
"I know." Marx steps closer, then stops himself.
"Then stop." I hold his gaze, keeping my voice steady.
"I was trying to protect you." Marx studies my face as if the answer matters more than his next breath.
"From what?" I ask.
He sets down the axe. "The articles."
"You mean the articles about me being the other woman—the homewrecker?” His face pales at my words. “I saw them, but they didn’t hurt as much as you not standing beside me during those accusations.”
“I’m sorry, Lana. I should have stayed by your side. I should have fought for us, but I thought that breaking up with you would protect you.” The hurt in his eyes is almost my undoing, but I’m not done yet.
“Yes, you should have stayed and fought for us, but you didn’t. How am I supposed to trust you again?” I let the words hang in the air.
He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t. I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused. I’ll sell the cabin and leave your life for good.”
“Are you running again?”
“Isn’t that what you want?” His face lights up with hope, and I can’t hold back any longer.
“I love you, Marx—that will never change. But you have to stop deciding what’s best for me and let me decide for myself.”
“I love you, too, Lana.” He wraps his arms around me, pulling me tight against his chest, his lips devouring mine like a starving man.
I push against his chest, breaking the kiss. “We’re in this together, right?”
“Together.” His lips crash down on mine, sealing our fate and our future—a future where we talk everything through and he doesn’t make decisions for me.