Page 17 of The Mountain Man's Sweet Treat
I miss the log I’m aiming for entirely, the axe landing in the trunk of the tree. I try to lift it out but it’s stuck pretty badly. “This is harder than it looks,” I grunt as I try in vain to get it out. Look, I’m not some delicate little thing, but this activity is nothing like I anticipated. “It’s so easy in the movies.”
“You just need to get the form down. It’ll get better after that. Try again,” he encourages, plucking the axe up as if I embedded it in paper and not a tree trunk. He’s done that all day. With every new task, he’s offered quiet encouragement and gentle reassurance. It almost feels like he believes in me. A girl could get used to that feeling.
I try twice more, each time getting it stuck. Finally, I blow out a breath in frustration. “I’m not getting this. Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”
He nods and takes the axe from me.
“Wait, don’t you need to remove your shirt? It’ll help me understand the form better.”
He smirks like he knows this has nothing to do with form but reaches for the buttons on his own flannel. He flicks them open slowly, unwrapping the material from his perfect torso. Now that he’s not encased in material, I can see how broad his shoulders really are. His tanned, toned arms that perfectly sculpted from hours spent cutting down trees are dotted with tattoos and scars.
His chest hair is light but still thick and plentiful. My fingers itch to touch it. I want to know what it feels like. But It’s the sight of the scars along his side that have me stepping forward. I'm a makeup artist, and I’ve often done special effects work including scars. But I’ve never seen scars quite like these.
He doesn’t flinch when I come to stand beside him. I keep my gaze locked on his as I gently trace the puckered lines of his skin. His breathing goes shallow.
“Shrapnel,” he grunts out the word.
I left my gaze drop, examining the lines that are proof this man before me is a warrior. “Does it still hurt?”
“Only inside my heart.”
I glance up at him, our gazes meeting. For the first time, we look at each other. Really look without pretenses or shields. There’s only the raw honesty of two people connecting in the middle of the forest on an autumn day underneath the endless blue sky.
“Lost a lot of good friends that day, men that were like brothers,” he explains, his normally gravelly tone going even deeper. This is the most he’s ever told me about himself, and now I understand, we’re alike. We’re both wounded, and we both sought refuge outside of civilization, away from the prying eyes of other people.
I don’t tell him I’m sorry. Those are hollow words. They don’t bring back the ones that were lost, and they aren’t a bandage that can be placed over wounds that still fester and bleed. “You were brave.”
“Or maybe just lucky.”
“Luck is about surviving. Bravery is about rebuilding,” I say. Isn’t that why I’m here after all? I’m on a quest to prove to myself that I’m brave enough and strong enough to rebuild my life. That one horrible moment doesn’t have to define me forever. Maybe this cabin and this life is the same thing for him.
My confession leaves me feeling more naked than the trees that have shed their leaves already. This connection between us is too strong, too powerful. I don’t know if I can risk exploring it, so I drop my hand. I lick my suddenly dry lips. “Show me.”
He nods, as if accepting that the moment has passed and lifts the axe with ease. “Step back.”
I do that and watch him split the log with practiced ease, his muscles rippling. Wood chips go flying in every direction, and he reaches for the next one. His biceps flex as he hefts the axe a second time and splits the next one.
He sets up the third one and beckons me closer with a gesture. “Get over here. I’m going to teach you how to handle wood like a true lumberjill.”
I don’t know if he meant it to sound so dirty but my cheeks heat. I’ve never cared much for the idea of handling a guy’s wood, but I want to put my hands all over this lumberjack’s big log.
“Teach me what to do.” The words come out as a breathy whimper.
“It’s all about grip,” he says, showing me where to position my hands. “A little bit tighter than that. Yeah, don’t be afraid to give it a good squeeze.”
He steps into my space and puts his arms around mine. “You’re doing so good for me. Yeah, you want to squeeze it just right.”
“I’m worried about hurting you,” I confess right as his wood brushes my backside. His shoulders aren’t the only thing that’s massive.
“Now, angle and depth are important, so we’re going slow. Let your core muscles do the work for you.” He puts a hand on my midsection, and his touch makes me feel owned. “Deep breath in, right here. Take a moment to feel this. Really feel the stretch and burn.”
The only thing I’m feeling is light-headed from how close he’s standing and how good he smells. If I could bottle the lumberjack’s musk and sell it as a cologne, I’d be rich in a matter of days.
I whimper. The noise makes him think I’m afraid, not that I’m so needy liquid heat is pooling in my panties.
“You’re doing great. You’re almost there. Now bring it back down. Focus on entry, keep everything lined up so it feels natural.”
His hands are on top of mine, guiding me as together, we swing the axe through the air and into the piece of wood. It splits in two, and I imagine him doing the same to me. I exhale a shaky breath, and he curses quietly. He drops the axe on the ground at the same moment I turn in his arms.
