She waves at me, grinning, and calls out, “Okay, one more swing, and I think I’ve got everything I need for the opening shot!”
I nod, throat tight, and set another log on the stump.
I can do this. I can keep my distance. I can be the solid, boring man she films and forgets when she heads back to Saint Pierce.
But when I look up and see her tucking a curl behind her ear, beaming like I just lit the whole damn town square tree with one swing of my axe?
Yeah.
I’m not sure Iwantto.
NINE
IVY
There should be a law against men like Rhett chopping wood in public.
Or in private.
Or within a fifty-foot radius of an emotionally vulnerable PR gal with a camera and a thing for forearms.
Because watching him now… yeah. It does something to me.
He sets each log on the stump with this calm, lethal precision, grips the axe like it’s an extension of his body, and brings it down in one smooth, powerful arc. The crack of wood splitting echoes through the trees, sharp and satisfying. Muscles bunch under his flannel. Breath puffs in the cold air. The whole thing is absurdly, unfairly… hot.
“Just hold it there for a second,” I call, framing him in profile as he pauses, axe resting against his shoulder.
He glances over, breath fogging, cheeks flushed from exertion and wind. “You getting your cinematic?”
Oh, I’m getting something.
“Yep,” I say, keeping my voice breezy instead of feral. “Very rustic. Very… authentic.”
He huffs and goes back to work, but I catch the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
My chest feels warm and fizzy, like I’ve swallowed a cup of champagne and three candy cane cookies. This isn’t just attraction anymore. Not just “wow, nice hands, would like to see again in different lighting.”
It’s the way he brings in extra woodbeforethe storm hits. The way he knows the sound of bad wind from show-off wind. The way he made biscuits this morning without a single comment about it being “women’s work”—just a quiet, competent man in a kitchen making sure I ate.
I’m in trouble.
He finishes the last log and sinks the axe into the stump with a practiced thud. I lower my phone and give him a thumb-up. “That was perfect. You’re officially the star of ‘How To Survive Winter and Also Accidentally Make the Internet Swoon.’”
“Hard pass on the swooning,” he says, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. But his tone is softer than it would’ve been two days ago. Less edge, more… resigned amusement.
He heads toward the porch, and I hurry to help stack the wood. It’s mindless, comforting work—wood, step, stack, repeat. My fingers tingle in my gloves, not from cold, but from being near him.
When we’re done, he frowns.
“Bad news?” I ask, heart wobbling.
“Sheriff called earlier,” he says. “They’re having trouble with the main pass. Plows are working double, but ridge roads are lower priority.” His eyes meet mine. “We’re probably stuck up here another day. Maybe two.”
“Oh.” I try to sound casual, but my voice does a little slide on the way out. “So… more storm mode.”
“More storm mode,” he confirms.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
