Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him.
“Girl, get out of your head. The first step would be inviting him over.”
Inviting him over.
To your parents’ house.
Above their garage.
I groan, lifting a hand above my head and tilting to one side, fingers pointed to the sky.
The stretch loosens the tension in my back, but it doesn’t do much for the knot twisting inside me. Inviting Harris into that space—into my life as it is now—feels like asking him to see everything I usually try to gloss over. The hand-me-down furniture, the patchy Wi-Fi, the constant sound of my dad hammering away in the workshop below.
I mean, can you imagine?
The horror.
I tilt my head back, watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky. There’s a simplicity to their movement that makes me wish I could think less and feel more. Let the uncertainty sit where it is without constantly trying to solve it.
But that’s not how I’m wired.
Instead, I picture Harris standing in my tiny studio space, ducking slightly to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. I laugh, imagining it. Exhale slowly and drop my arm, the breeze catching strands of my hair and brushing them across my face.
Maybe the question isn’t whether or not I could make long distance work, but whether or not I’m ready to let him see every messy, imperfect piece of me—and stay for the night.
Just do it . . .
“Do it.”
Don’t be scared.
Before I can continue overthinking it, I grab my phone out of my belt bag and stare at his number, tapping on it.
Chapter 14
Harris
Turns out, I’m as terrible at chopping wood as I am at logrolling.
You’d think being a linebacker would help, but no.
My form sucks, my swings are off, and I’m pretty sure the last piece of wood I’m attempting to split is made of concrete.
“I have no idea what to do with you.” Annabelle moans, pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s on the verge of firing me. “You have the muscles, but that’s all you’re bringing to the table. I don’t get it!”
I wipe the sweat from my brow, glaring at the log. “I’m better when I’m hitting things thatmove.”
Annabelle lets out a short laugh, tossing a water bottle at me. “Unless you plan on tackling the logs, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
I twist the cap off and take a long drink, letting the cold water drown some of my frustration. Across the training field, the other guys are chopping wood like they were born holding an axe, sweat glistening on their backs as chunks of wood fly in clean splits.
As if they’re actually professionals.
Fucking irritating as hell.
She watches me watching them and sighs loudly. “I hate to break it to you, but the festival crowd does not want a wrestling match in themiddle of the lumberjack stage, so you’re gonna have to figure this out.” Her hands go to her hips. “Try again.”
I groan internally, picking up the axe. Annabelle glares like Coach, and the pressure feels heavier than it should. I take a breath, grip the handle tighter, and bring it down.
