Page 67 of Axe-ing for Trouble
The white T-shirt was smudged with dirt and clung to his pecs. If memory served me correctly, his body was ridiculous. I’d assumed he was one of those gym and protein shake guys.
Now that I thought about it, I’d been here for weeks, and he hadn’t once mentioned hitting the weight room.
No, what he possessed was real, hard-earned strength.
And it was mesmerizing.
He rolled a log at least two feet wide onto his wooden platform and lined up his axe. In one fluid, graceful, precise motion, he swung.
This time, the wood didn’t split all the way through. So he put one boot on it and pulled the axe out, then dropped it to the ground.
He walked around, inspecting the log.
I held my breath in anticipation of what he’d do next.
I never could have predicted that he’d pick the damn thing up, wedge his fingers into the crack left by his axe, and pull.
But fuck, that’s exactly what he did. Every muscle in his body strained with the effort, his biceps rippling as he pulled as hard as he could.
With a roar, he tore the fucking log in half.
I whipped around and slumped against the wall. What the hell had I witnessed?
Did mild-mannered, graphic novel–loving Jude Hebert rip apart a tree trunk with his bare hands? Like the Hulk in glasses and suspenders?
Sweat dotted my hairline, and my pulse raced as my legs wobbled, threatening to give out.
Goddamn him and his morals and his whole protector bullshit.
Yeah, I was hurt and on the run from homicidal drug traffickers, but I had needs, dammit. For God’s sake, I was a red-blooded woman trapped in a small cottage with the hottest lumbersnack in history.
But he’d made it clear that he wouldn’t cross the line.
So if I couldn’t hit that, I’d at least enjoy the show.
With a deep inhale, I turned back toward the window, eager to get another look.
But when I zeroed in on him, my heart leaped right out of my chest. He stood, feet shoulder-width apart, arms crossed. Biceps bulging against the flimsy white cotton and the dark suspenders calling attention to the sheer breadth of his shoulders.
And he was looking right at me.
Shit.
I hadn’t thought I could embarrass myself any further than I already had. I was wrong. But as white-hot shame washed over me, another feeling emerged along with it.
Anger.
Why was he taunting me? He was the one who’d turned me down.
And now he was out here, putting on a lumberjack show.
The audacity.
He was waving a red flag in front of a horny, repressed bull.
So instead of hiding from him, I stepped into my shoes, pulled on one of his big coats, and marched my ass outside.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I barked.
