“Oh,” he said, glancing back at me at last. “Why didn’t you say so?” He set the axe in a knot, braced, and motioned me forward. “Come here. I’ll show you.”
My feet obeyed before logic could assemble a defense. “I am not convinced this is wise.”
“What, afraid of splinters?”
“No,” I said, lifting my chin. “I am afraid you will make another smug comment about your imaginings of me observing you.”
“I can’t help it if you’ve got good taste.”
I resisted every instinct to lift my eyes skyward.
He stepped aside from the log, one hand loose on the haft, the other beckoning. “Come on.” That insufferable half-smile tugging. “Didn’t you say you wanted to learn?”
“You said you would show me,” I replied, affecting indifference. “I did not commit to participation.”
“Too late,” he said softly. “You’re already here.”
Reluctantly, I took the axe. It was heavier than anticipated; the handle was rough where his hands had worn the grain. Upon attempting to lift it, I tipped forward, nearly falling.
Mav chuckled. “That’s…one way to hold it.”
“It is awkward.”
“You’re awkward.”
“You are arrogant.”
“And you’re stalling.”
Before I could mint a retort, he stepped in behind me—so close the heat of him wrapped around me. His hands closed over mine, sure and callused, and my stuttering breath betrayed me.
“Hands here,” he murmured, adjusting my grip. “Wider stance. You’re not serving tea.”
“I would much rather be doing that.”
He laughed. The sound rumbled against my back. “Ready?”
No. “Yes.”
He guided the swing. Our arms moved as one; his strength steadied mine; the axe arced clean and bit. A satisfying crack answered. Again. And again. My body performed the task, but it was his instruction that shaped each cut.
Whatever counsel he offered about leverage and follow-through blurred to static. There was no chance of focus with his breath at my temple and his body against mine. My world contracted to the heady perfume of wood, sweat, and him. I found myself surrendering to the rhythm of his movements, and to the quiet fact of how safe I felt within his arms, as though the world beyond them could not reach me.
Saints preserve me, I took pleasure in it.
We struck once more; the axe thunked home.
“And that,” he said, releasing me, “is how you do it.”
He freed the axe and stepped away, leaving me mourning the sudden absence of his warmth.
I blinked. “Pardon?”
“You weren’t listening, were you?”
“No,” I admitted, breath uneven. “Not in the least.” I turned to thank him and lost the ability to draw breath.
He stood too near. His eyes were already on mine. His gaze flicked to my mouth—a heartbeat, no more—and returned.
