Page 82 of Caught in the Axe
“Your mom mentioned that you’d run out of firewood.” He shrugged, still focused on the task at hand. “I wanted you to have a nice day.”
Jesus. There was no recovering from this man. Distance and professionalism were not getting the job done. If I wasn’t certain that my mother was spying on us through the kitchen window right now, I’d be dry humping his leg already.
“Go inside,” he demanded, holding out the axe in my direction like he was pointing at me.
I shivered. Not because of the cold. Nope. But because that deep, bossy register unlocked some deep, primal muscle memory. I was fairly certain the responding fluttering in my belly was my ovaries spontaneously ovulating.
As I shuffled up the back stairs and into the warm kitchen, I found my mother standing by the sink and smiling maniacally at me.
“Don’t say a word.”
She laughed. “I’m just here for the show.”
I set the scones on the counter, ready to protest, but then, outside the window, movement caught my eye. Owen began unbuttoning his dress shirt, and I lost the ability to speak. He carefully shrugged out of it and draped it over the deck railing, then he stepped away, wearing just a white undershirt, jeans, and those broken-in boots.
“Daaayuuum,” Mom hissed under her breath.
“Is this actually happening?” I asked, my heart pounding in my ears. Because I thought maybe I’d died in my sleep and now resided in lumberjack heaven.
“Does it matter?” She elbowed me. “Shut up and enjoy it.”
This was unfair. Truly unfair. How was I supposed to resist him when he was stripped down to a white T-shirt and chopping wood in my mom’s backyard?
He lined up the log and swung the axe, then brought it down. The movement was hypnotic.
The strength and precision were intoxicating.
Beside me, my mother fanned herself. “Talk about arm port. Those dress shirts do not do him justice.”
She wasn’t wrong. They hid just how muscular and lean he was. As each muscle bunched and clenched beneath thethin cotton, it hit me just how hard it was going to be to keep my damn pants on around him. “Remember to practice safe sex, sweetie.”
A scoff ripped its way out of me. “Mom. Stop.”
“The man is chopping wood for you. Just give it up already.”
I ignored her. I was too busy watching him to bother continuing the argument.
He kept going, swinging and chopping, each cut precise.
As if this buttoned-up corporate executive had been born with an axe in his hands.
After a solid fifteen minutes of chopping, then stacking the cut wood next to the back door, he’d prepped enough to last an entire winter. But I couldn’t help but think it might not be enough. Because I wasn’t ready for the show to end. I’d personally take down every tree in town just to keep watching the Owen Hebert Lumberjack Spectacular. Screw raffles. The town should use him to fundraise for the new library. If we streamed this on YouTube, this town would never want for anything again.
And then he was at the door, all sweaty and masculine and lickable.
“Ms. Webster, sorry for the intrusion.” He dipped his chin politely at my mother.
Her response was nothing more than a dazed smile.
He toed his boots off and carried a small stack of wood to the fireplace. Once he had it placed the way he wanted it, he opened the flue and got the fire lit quickly.
The two of us stood side by side, possibly with our mouths open and our tongues lolling, surely lookingcompletely idiotic. But there was no helping it. My mind and body could not process what was happening.
He rubbed his hands together and stepped back to admire the blaze. “Here you are, ladies. Enjoy your Hallmark movies.”
I was still staring, slack-jawed, when my mother poked my side, startling me.
“Th-thank you,” I said, concerned the words may have been incoherent. My brain was far too preoccupied to focus on syllables and pronunciation.
