Adrian smirked like that swing granted him some manhood points… only for him to turn back to the log and miss every angle God ever gave him.
That’s when he decided to switch from embarrassment to ignorance. “So what happened between you and Chesteria, anyway? Why y’all break up?”
My brow lifted, and my shoulders stiffened.
So she never told him.
“That’s personal,” I answered smoothly, leaning on the handle like it was a throne.
Adrian went back to struggling with the log. I watched him fumble with the wood for a few more seconds, before stepping in and taking over.
Because let’s be real, at the rate that nigga was going, if we had to depend on him, we’d freeze before he got one log split.
I gripped the axe and swung back-to-back like I was born doing it. Every hit landed with intention and cracked the wood to perfection. After knocking out ten solid logs, I wiped my forehead and looked over at Adrian, who was still standing there holdingonelog, looking like a confused backup dancer on stage—stiff, unsure, and trying hard not to look useless.
“Damn. You the truth with that shit, man.”
I smirked and shook my head, not even winded.
“I know. Ain’t nothingfakeabout my résumé,” I replied coolly and cockily, brushing past him.
Chapter thirteen
Chesteria
“When the Axe Falls & the Truth Follows”
What the hell are they talking about?I wondered.
The snow fell in thick, lazy flakes, resembling powdered sugar being sprinkled over a world that still had flavor. I stood at the window, my arms folded tightly across my chest, silently observing Bryce in the distance. He wore a heavy coat, though his shirt was absent, like he was somehow immune to the bone-chilling cold. A snug beanie sat atop his head, and his sturdy boots were firmly planted in the icy ground as he hacked at the firewood, each swing of the axe sending splinters flying. Bryce wasn’t just out there working; he was putting on a show. For who? I couldn’t say for sure, but the sight of him confidently chopping wood in twenty-degree weather suggested that I, perhaps, was his only audience.
That was one thing I absolutely adored about Bryce: he was a man…allman. And not the kind that just wanted the title orwould post memes about being a provider just to turn around and split the bill. Nah. Bryce knew how to fix a leak, build a shelf, calm a storm, and make a girl feel safe in one breath and seen in the next. He didn’t talk about protection; hewasprotection. That man could wire a generator, grill in the snow, and hold a crying woman without making it awkward. Bryce wasn’t allergic to hard work or intimacy; he didn’t flinch around tears, and he didn’t call a woman crazy for needing reassurance… he gave it freely.
And Lord, the man looked good doing it.
Bryce had never let me lift a finger financially… not one. From the moment he asked me to be his girl back in college, he made me put my wallet away. He even took over my cell phone bill and upgraded my plan. When I argued, he got offended, like my independence was disrespectful to his intentions. And he didn’t just pay for things, he showed up. Bryce promised me that night on the quad bench under the stars, “I’ma protect you, love you, and never make you question either one.” And for the most part, he meant it.Untilthat one moment that still clawed at my chest like it happened yesterday.
The night our baby didn’t make it, and Bryce left me to grieve alone in a room that smelled like antiseptic and death.
My arms wrapped tighter around my body.
I turned away from the window and ran into just the person Iwantedto see—Isis. She descended slowly from the staircase, hips swinging and body banging, like she was modeling for a luxury sleepwear line. Gone were the crop top and booty shorts from earlier. In its place, a plush, expensive-looking—and clearly not from Target—ivory pajama set hugged her curves. I had to give it to Isis… she was a bad bitch. Whatever surgeon had carved her up deserved a damn award. Not to be mistaken, I was just as pretty and shapely, butunlikeher, my ass didn’t clap backwhen I sat down, and I didn’t need injections in my lips, cheeks, or self-worth.
“Outside,” I answered, dryly. “Wherewe’regoing.”
Isis stopped cold, face twisted like I just told her we had to fight a bear.
“Going?”
I exhaled slowly, already feeling my patience packing its bags.
“Yeah,” I confirmed dryly. “Sincethey’recutting the wood, the least we can do is bring it inside. It’s called teamwork.”
Cutting wood was traditionally a man’s job,yeah, but when me and Bryce were together, I always jumped in anyway. We moved as a unit—even though he used to fuss about how much I insisted on helping. That’s just who I was, though. I was that ride or die chick… cold or cozy… always ready to get my hands dirty if it meant making the work easier for both of us.
Isis stood beside me, arms folded tightly across her chest, frowning like a pissed off toddler who had just been told she couldn’t have dessert.
“No, it’s calledbreaking a nail. It’s calledI don’t do manual labor. It’s calledmy hands are meant for mimosas and moisturizers, not manhandling logs in negative twenty wind chill!This isn’t the Oregon Trail!”
