What I find instead is Harris.
Stacking logs.
In swim trunks?
The sharp thwack of an axe hitting wood echoes across the dock, and for the briefest moment I think I’ve wandered onto the set of a very low-budget reality competition show. Harris is at the center of it all, sweat glistening on his neck and arms as he hefts another log onto the growing pile beside him.
Three other buff-looking dudes are lounging nearby in varying levels of disinterest. One’s scrolling through his phone, another is picking at his fingernails, and the last one looks half asleep with his feet propped up on a crate.
Poor Annabelle.
“Is there a plan here, or are you building a beaver dam?” I call out to Harris, stopping a few feet away from him with my arms crossed.
Harris straightens, leaning the axe handle against his shoulder. When he spots me, that cocky grin that’s perma-plastered on his face gets wider.
“Hey, hottie,” he says, genuinely pleased to see me. “You showed up. Couldn’t wait to see the magic happen?”
He flexes for good measure, and my eyes drift down to his swim trunks, choosing not to ask the reason he’s wearing them, focusing my attention on the logs he’s stacking.
“If bymagicyou mean stacking firewood, then yeah—I’m totally blown away by your talent.”
If he senses my sarcasm, he doesn’t let on. “Not all heroes wear capes.”
I laugh. “Is that what you call this?”
“We have a job to do, and I’m the team leader,” he explains, leaning on his axe, gesturing toward the dudes who are sitting aroundnotpracticing.
“Team leader?” one of the other lumberjacks calls, not looking up from his phone. “You’ve been posing like a jackass influencer for twenty minutes.”
Harris points the axe at him. “Respect the craft, Wallace.”
“My name is Wally. I’ve corrected you at least ninety-two tim—”
“Enough bickering, dear God!” Annabelle comes stomping over from the shed—which has doubled as her office over the past few weeks—boots crunching on the gravel as she barrels toward us. “Listen, guys. We have less than one week to get our shit together, which means you all need to lookconvincing—”
“Already got that covered, boss,” Harris interrupts, striking an exaggerated pose, one boot up on a log. He flexes his calf muscle, tan highlighted by the bright-blue wave pattern of his shorts. “Bam. Look at this definition.”
Annabelle disregards his posturing. “Kyle, you’re the chain saw demo.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Wally, the two-man saw with Bill. Harris.” She glances over at him, eyes homing in on the swim trunks. “You’re scheduled for the main event: logrolling competition. I need all of you to try and not die.”
Harris doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be fine. The crowd loves an underdog story.”
One of the guys snorts. “An underdog story usually still involves someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Harris says confidently, hoisting the axe on one shoulder like he’s posing for a bodywash commercial.
Annabelle glances down at her clipboard. “How many times have you logrolled before?”
Harris shrugs. “I mean—how hard can it be?”
Wally grins. “I give you ten seconds before you biff it.”
“I’ll take the over on that,” the other guy muses. “Fifteen before he eats it.”
“Twenty!” I chime in on the roasting. “I have total faith in him.”
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,William,” Harris fires back at the burly man wearing a frown.
“My name is Bill, asshole. And you’re as useful as a cardboard axe.” He finally looks up. “We get it—you can swing an axe—but that doesn’t mean you can chop wood.”
