Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Boone
I’m outside before the sun fully clears the ridge, breath fogging, saw whining through the cold as it bites into the fallen pine. The storm last night didn’t just knock it down—it dropped it right across the edge of my property like a middle finger from the mountain itself.
Figures.
I plant my boots, shift my weight carefully so my bad leg doesn’t bark, and guide the blade through the trunk. Wood chips spray. The vibration runs up my arms and settles into my shoulder, the old injury complaining but not enough to stop me. Pain’s background noise now. Has been for a while.
The saw dies with a rough cough. Silence rushes in—thick, snowy, too loud in its own way.
“Morning, Lumberjack.”
I don’t look up. Don’t need to. I know that voice already—bright, warm, entirely too awake for this hour.
“Where’s my cookies?” I call, bending to drag a cut section aside.
There’s a pause. I can hear it in the snow crunching under her boots as she stops short.
“I came over here to say thank you,” Ember says, clearly affronted. “Good morning would’ve been a solid start.”
“Cookies first,” I mutter, heaving another log to the side. “Gratitude second.”
She huffs. Loud. Deliberate.
I glance up despite myself.
She’s bundled in a ridiculous knit hat the color of sunrise, scarf crooked, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. There’s a smudge of paint on her glove. Like the universe refuses to let her be clean or neutral for even five minutes.
“You are unbelievable,” she says.
“Still waiting,” I reply, wiping sweat from my neck with the back of my glove.
She plants her hands on her hips. “You fixed my pipe in thirty seconds.”
“Thirty-one.”
“Fine. Thirty-one. I said thank you. That should count for something.”
“It counts toward cookies,” I say, deadpan.
She glares. Really glares. Jaw tight, eyes flashing.
And yeah. There it is.
“Cute,” I say without thinking. “You’re real cute when you’re mad.”
Silence.
Immediate. Total.
Her expression freezes—not angry now. Stunned. Like she wasn’t expecting that particular line from the grumpy caveman neighbor.
I feel it then. That slight shift in the air when a comment lands harder than intended.
I straighten, stretch my back carefully, and turn away to drag another branch clear. No apology. No explanation. If I open my mouth again, something worse might come out.
“You’re…” she starts, then trails off.
I don’t respond.
She steps closer instead.
Snow crunches. Once. Twice.
My shoulder tightens. My grip on the log goes rigid.
Then she stops.
“Hey,” she says, softer now. “You’re limping.”
I freeze.
The mountain goes quiet again, like it’s listening.
“It’s nothing,” I say too fast.
She doesn’t buy it. I can tell without looking.
“Your leg,” she continues, careful, like she’s approaching a skittish animal. “And your shoulder. Yesterday, when that truck backfired down the road—you flinched.”
I turn then, slow and deliberate.
“Don’t,” I warn.
Her eyes lift to mine. No fear. No backing down. Just… concern. Curious, gentle concern that has no business being aimed at me.
“I’m not judging,” she says. “I’m asking.”
“Don’t,” I repeat, firmer.
She swallows. For half a second, I think she’ll retreat. Crack a joke. Change the subject like most people do when they realize they’ve stepped too close to something sharp.
Instead, she tilts her head.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “Then I’ll ask this.”
I wait.
“Why do you act like you’re mad at the world,” she continues, “when it looks an awful lot like the world already hit you first?”
That one lands.
Hard.
My jaw locks. The saw feels too heavy in my hand. My pulse picks up, sharp and insistent, like it’s warning me to move or strike or run—anything but stand here and let her look at me like that.
Firefly.
She sees too damn much.
I snort, forcing the sound light. “Congratulations,” I say. “You’ve officially diagnosed me with Mountain Man Trauma. Want a medal?”
She doesn’t smile.
“I teach kids,” she says. “You don’t get to deflect me with sarcasm that easily.”
I laugh, short and rough. “You crying under that sink yesterday says otherwise.”
Her chin lifts. “That was plumbing-based trauma.”
I bark out a real laugh before I can stop myself. It slips loose, surprising both of us.
There it is again—that flicker between us. Heat under the cold. Something restless and dangerous that doesn’t belong in daylight conversations or neighborly favors.
She smiles then, small and triumphant. “See? You’re not made of stone.”
“Don’t spread that around,” I say. “I’ve got a reputation.”
She steps closer again. Close enough now that I can smell her—clean soap, paint, something citrusy that doesn’t belong in a mechanic’s yard.
Her gaze drops to my shoulder. To the old scar peeking above my collar where the jacket dips.
“Does it still hurt?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say honestly.
She looks up. “Physically or…?”
I lift an eyebrow. “Bold question for a woman who owes me cookies.”
She exhales, half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re nosy.”
“Curious.”
“Persistent.”
“Caveman,” she says suddenly, tasting the word like it belongs in her mouth.
I stiffen. “Trouble.”
She steps in just a fraction more. My back brushes the worktable behind me. I hadn’t realized I’d moved.
The space between us tightens. Narrows. I’m aware of my height, my weight, the way her eyes flicker when she realizes exactly how close we are. I could take control of this moment. Cage her in with my body. End the questions with something physical she wouldn’t forget.
I want to.
Bad.
Instead, I lean back just enough to breathe.
“Go make art,” I say. “Teach your kids. Flood your studio again.”
She frowns. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She studies me for a long beat, like she’s deciding whether to push or retreat. Finally, she nods.
“Okay,” she says. “For now. Might stop by every day just to see that grumpy look on your face.”
I smirk. “Long as you bring cookies I’ll hold you to that.”
She turns to leave, then pauses.
“For what it’s worth,” she adds, glancing back over her shoulder, “you don’t look broken. You look… guarded.”
I watch her walk away, color against snow, light against shadow.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t hate that she sees me.
I hate that I want her to keep looking.