Chapter Twenty-Six Axe Me Out Sometime
Chapter Twenty-Six
Axe Me Out Sometime
Scarlett
When I agreed to go out with Chase, I was fully prepared to regret it.
Not because he’s a bad guy—well, okay, he is a cocky, insufferably smug hockey player with too much charm and not enough humility—but because this? This is a terrible idea.
He’s the exact kind of guy I write against. The kind who coasts on confidence and looks. The kind who doesn’t believe in quiet evenings or emotional depth. The kind who ruins perfectly reasonable, independent women with his dimples and devil-may-care swagger.
So imagine my surprise when I show up, expecting some overpriced steakhouse with a wine list longer than my last book—and instead, I find myself standing in front of a warehouse-looking building with a neon sign that reads:
AXE ME ANYTHING.
“You’re joking,” I say as I climb out of the car, eyeing the building like it personally offended me.
Chase leans against his Jeep, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself. “What, not fancy enough for you?”
“I thought you were going to wine and dine me.”
“I thought about it. But I figured that wouldn’t impress you.”
“Smart boy.”
He grins. “Plus, I like my eyebrows. Didn’t feel like getting them burned off by your death glare over duck confit.”
It’s an interesting choice.
My only clue was when I texted him to ask about the dress code for tonight; he’d told me to wear sensible shoes.
It was a strange request. Not one I’d ever had from a date before. Not that I’d dated much in the last decade. But still.
He ushers me inside, and it’s… actually kind of cool? Exposed brick walls, strings of Edison lights, and about six lanes of people hurling axes into wooden targets like it’s a totally normal Saturday night.
“I swear to you,” I murmur as I pick up a waiver, “if this is some kind of elaborate plan to off me, I hope you know I’ve texted my location to multiple people.”
“Please,” he says. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d at least have the decency to wait until after dessert.”
“You’re a real gentleman, Remington.”
“So they say,” he hums, signing his own waiver with a flourish.
We’re given a rundown by a very peppy employee named Jasmine who has safety goggles and the enthusiasm of a camp counselor on Red Bull. She walks us through the basics, shows us the right stance, and then hands us each an axe.
“Ready?” Chase asks, twirling his like it’s not a literal weapon.
Jeez.
My stomach does a weird little flip.
“Born ready.” I adjust my grip and square my shoulders, trying to remember what Jasmine said about follow-through.
“Ladies first.” He gestures for me to begin.
My first throw goes wildly left.
“Okay, that was a warm-up,” I say, brushing my hair out of my face.
“Sure it was.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“I’m literally just standing here.”
He steps up, winds back, and sticks it dead center.
Of course he does.
I scowl. “You practice this in your off time?”
“Nah. I’m just naturally talented.” He winks.
I hate how attractive I find that wink. Seriously… annoying!
I throw again. It thuds into the board but falls off.
“Form’s solid,” he says, stepping behind me. “You just need more momentum.”
“Don’t you dare give me a lesson.”
“Too late.” He moves in closer, positioning himself just behind me, and I can’t help but be aware of his tall, muscular frame brushing my backside. Holy distracting! He smells incredible, and he’s so big and warm behind me. He casually adjusts my grip on the handle. “Here. Pull back like this.”
His hands are warm on mine, his breath brushes the side of my neck, and suddenly the air feels ten degrees hotter.
“This is a bad idea,” I mutter.
“Which part?”
“Letting you this close to an axe.”
He chuckles, low and amused. “Relax. I’m not the enemy tonight.”
“I don’t trust you with that kind of power.”
“Fine,” he says, stepping back. “But if you hurl that thing through the wall, I’m not explaining it to Jasmine.”
I try again—and this time, it hits. Not the bullseye, but it sticks.
I turn to Chase, triumphant. “See? I don’t need your help.”
“You sure about that?” His voice is soft, teasing—but something else lingers there too.
I try not to notice the way his eyes drop to my mouth. Try not to notice the way my heart thumps like a warning bell.
We play a few more rounds, the trash talk flying easily between us, and for a while, it’s easy. Fun, even. No pressure. No book club. No audience.
Just us.
Eventually, we turn in our axes, and he grabs my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, tugging me toward the door. “Come on.”
I narrow my eyes. “Where are we going now?”
“You’ll see.”
“You already tried to kill me once tonight.”
“Technically, you tried to kill yourself with your throwing technique.”
He drives us five minutes out of town to a little hill overlooking the lake. The stars are out in full force, scattered across the sky like confetti, and there’s a tiny food truck parked near the edge of the lot.
“Is this part two of your murder plot?”
“Nope.” He parks, orders two milkshakes from the vendor, and hands me one. “Peanut butter for you. Strawberry for me.”
I blink. “You remembered that?”
He shrugs. “I pay attention.”
I don’t know what to do with that.
So I take a sip.
And damn it—it’s perfect. Seriously, if I ever get sent to death row, this exact milkshake would be my final meal request. It’s life-changing.
Damn him.
We sit on the hood of the Jeep, the stars above us, treetops swishing in the distance, and it’s… quiet. Peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Because the more silent it gets, the more I hear my own heartbeat, loud and traitorous.
Chase looks over at me. “So… not the date you expected?”
“No,” I say softly. “It’s better.”
He smiles. Not smug. Not teasing.
Just… soft.
Real.
And in that moment, I’m not Scottie Calloway, self-proclaimed cynic and author of anti-love literature.
I’m just a girl sitting on a Jeep, next to a guy who sees me in a way I wasn’t ready for.
And worse?
I think I kind of like it.
We finish our shakes slower than necessary, both of us drawing out the moment like we know something about it matters. I don’t say that out loud, obviously, because that would require vulnerability and honesty and other horrifying things. But I feel it hanging in the air between us.
I’m not as immune as I like to pretend.
The night is warm, but not hot. Crickets hum in the distance. There’s a slight breeze and plenty of stars.
And Chase smells like cedar and clean laundry and something vaguely citrusy. It’s unfair how good he smells, especially when I’m trying very hard not to be charmed.
“So,” I say, because silence is dangerous. “You grew up in Michigan, you said?”
“Just outside Grand Rapids,” he says, sipping the last of his strawberry milkshake. “Small town. Lots of ponds, one decent diner, and a high school hockey team that thought it was the NHL.”
I smile into my straw. “Let me guess. You were the star.”
“I peaked early,” he says dryly. “Now I just get paid to smash into people and skate in circles.”
I laugh, but he’s watching me, expression a little softer now.
“What about you?” he asks. “Chicago girl, right?”
“Born and raised.”
“You ever miss it?”
“Sometimes,” I admit. “Mostly the food. And the lakefront. And… maybe who I was before everything got complicated.”
He leans back on his elbows, his long legs stretched in front of him. “That happen young? The complications?”
I glance up at the stars. “Yeah. Unfortunately, my childhood memories are tinged with lots of fighting. Before the divorce. Before my dad left and my mom stopped trying.”
He’s quiet, listening in a way most people don’t.
“That’s probably why I’m so… cynical,” I add. “It’s hard to believe in love when the people who were supposed to model it for you couldn’t get it right.”
He doesn’t rush to fill the space. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “Between that and the end of your relationship… it left a mark.”
“It left a mark,” I repeat softly.
We sit in silence for a beat.
Then he says, “I think that’s why I don’t usually date. Or… attach, I guess. It’s easier to stay focused when you don’t let anyone close.”
I raise a brow. “Funny. That’s my entire brand.”
He glances over at me. “So what are we doing here, then?”
I look at him. The lights from the food truck are behind us now, and his face is lit only by the moon and stars. His hair’s a little messy. His expression is unreadable.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
And then he kisses me.
It’s soft at first—hesitant, like he’s giving me a chance to pull away.
I don’t.
His hand finds my jaw, his fingers brush lightly behind my ear, and I lean in instinctively, letting myself feel it. The press of his lips. The warmth of his palm. The way the world fades out, just for a second, until there’s nothing left but this.
Him.
Us.
He deepens the kiss and oh wow, I feel a zing of pleasure course through me.
That’s new.
He tastes like strawberry ice cream, and his tongue is very, very persuasive. I forget all the reasons why I was opposed to him in the first place. In fact, I forget everything…my name, my zip code, the entire concept of self-control.
When he pulls back, I blink, dazed.
And then he clears his throat and shifts back in his seat.
“Okay,” he says, his voice slightly unsteady. “I better, uh, take you home.”
I stare at him.
“What?” I ask, still breathless. “That’s it?”
He laughs under his breath. “Trust me. If I stay here another minute, I’m going to make that kiss a whole lot more complicated.”
My heart pounds in a way that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.
He stands and offers his hand to help me off the Jeep hood.
I take it.
And I don’t say anything else the whole ride home—because honestly? I’m not sure what just happened either.
But something did.
And I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same.
Harper once bet me I wouldn’t last the summer without falling for Chase Remington. I laughed in her face. And yet… here I am. Lipstick smudged. Heart racing. Sad that our date is over.
What’s happening to me?