Page 9 of Praised By the Lumberjack

"There’s nothing wrong with axe-throwing and…” She mocks my gesture, kissing my cheek. “But, yes, I'd love that," she replies, squeezing my hand.

As I walk her to her car, my arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, I realize that everything has changed. This woman, who trusted me with her body's first experience of intimacy, has somehow worked her way deep into my heart in a matter of days.

"Tomorrow, then," I say, leaning down to kiss her goodbye, trying to pour all my newfound feelings into the connection.

"Tomorrow," she echoes.

I watch her drive away, already counting the minutes until I'll see her again. I've had my share of sexual encounters before, but nothing like this. Nothing that left me feeling both fiercely possessive and utterly humbled at the same time.

five

Hazel

Ican'tstopthinkingabout him.

After our encounter at Timber!, Flint's touch still lingers on my skin like a phantom caress. I catch myself daydreaming at the library where I work, shelving novels in completely wrong sections because my mind wanders to green eyes and strong hands.

"Earth to Hazel," my coworker Lisa says, waving her hand in front of my face. "That's the third time you've put mystery novels in the biography section. What's going on with you?"

I feel my cheeks flush. "Nothing."

"Liar," she says with a knowing smile. "You've got that 'I met someone' look all over your face."

I bite my lip, unable to contain my smile. "Maybe I did."

Lisa pulls me behind the natural science section, which is always quiet, keeping her voice low. "Tell me everything."

I give her the PG version—how I got stood up, how Flint taught me to throw axes, and how we're going on an actual date tonight. Some details are just for me.

"He's taking me to dinner tonight," I finish, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.

"Well, you better go home and get ready," Lisa says, checking her watch. "I’ll cover your last ten minutes.”

I rush home and take extra time to get ready. I choose a deep green dress that brings out my eyes and hugs my curves in all the right places—a far cry from the cardigans and sensible skirts I wear at the library.

When Flint arrives, his eyes widen appreciatively. "Wow," he breathes. "You look incredible."

I blush under his intense stare. "Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself."

Dinner is at the only Italian restaurant in town. It is intimate and cozy, with candlelight creating a warm glow. Conversation flows easily between us. I tell him about my job at the local library, my love of connecting people with stories, and my dream of running the children's literacy program.

"There's something magical about helping a child discover the right book," I explain. "It's like watching a door open to another world."

Flint listens intently, his eyes never leaving mine, as if every word matters deeply. He tells me about growing up in a small logging town, following his father's footsteps before finding his own path.

"I never thought I'd end up teaching people to throw axes," he admits with a laugh. "But I love watching that moment of triumph when someone hits the target for the first time."

"Like when I hit the target?" I ask, remembering the thrill of success under his guidance.

His eyes darken. "Exactly like that. You were such a good girl, following my instructions perfectly."

A shiver runs through me at his words. The way he says "good girl" awakens something I never knew existed within me—a desire to please him, to earn that praise again and again.

After dinner, we stroll hand in hand through downtown. We pass the library, and he stops to look at the window display I'd arranged last week.

"You should come by sometime," I say. "I could recommend some books for you."

He smiles, bringing my hand to his lips. "I'd like that. Though I should warn you, I might have trouble focusing on reading with you around."

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