“Every so often I could use the help,” I say, grabbing my water bottle. “My friends are assholes.”
I take a long swig, thinking about Lucy’s place and all the possibilities that await. The idea of being in her space makes my pulse kick up another notch.
Annabelle gives me a playful nudge. “My only advice—as your dating coach—is don’t mess this up, dude. Lucy is one of the good ones.”
I roll my eyes at her warning, putting the cap back on my water jug. “Duh.”
“I’m not kidding. She doesn’t invite anyone to her place,” she points out. “She’s particular.”
My brows go up. “Is that a code word forhigh maintenanceandpicky?”
Annabelle lifts her shoulders up and down. “Bit of both, probably.”
Fair enough. “High maintenance and picky don’t scare me.”
Bring it on.
The next ten minutes go by in a blur of sweat, sawdust, and a growing anticipation in my gut. By the time I’m done stacking the last log, Annabelle’s already given me a once-over, like she’s silently calculating how much of a mess I look.
“You can’t show up to her place smelling like tree sap,” she warns, scrunching up her nose. “Go shower. Maybe shave that scruff a bit. It’s borderline caveman right now.”
“This is my signature scruff.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Your signature scruff has wood chips in it.”
I pluck a stray chip from my beard and flick it to the ground. “Adds to the rugged charm.”
“Does it, though?”
Guess not.
“Oh! And before you go dreaming about romance, let me remind you that you need to be here Saturday morning at seven o’clock sharp for the show.”
I groan. “Seven in the morning?”
“Yes,” she replies with zero sympathy. “We’re doing final prep before the main event starts at noon. Don’t be late, or I’ll have you hauling logssolo. Wear flannel, jeans, and those boots you wore the other day—they make you look like an actual lumberjack and not someone pretending to be one.”
“Flannel and boots.” I nod enthusiastically. “Got it.”
She taps her pen against her clipboard. “Oh, and leave Lucy’s place in time to get some sleep. I need you rested and in one piece.”
I salute her. “Anything else, boss?”
“Tell all your friends, if you have any. We still have some VIP tickets, and I would love to get those sold.” She inhales a breath. “In hindsight, having front-row seats next to the water may not have been a draw—but it’s as close as you can get to the action. We even have a dunk tank.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “You’re putting me in the dunk tank if I’m late.”
She grins. “You’re going in the dunk tank regardless.”
Half an hour later I’m storing the axe and saying goodbye to the other guys (the actual lumberjacks), waving over my shoulder as I slide into the driver’s seat of my truck. With the windows down and the wind blowing through my already mussed-up hair, I let the anticipation settle back into my chest.
The weight is heavy—thegoodkind of pressure before a big game. Adrenaline-like pressure ...
The kind that makes you want to perform your best.
Back at the cabin I hit the shower. Scrub away the wood chips and dust within an inch of my life. Dry off. Throw on a plain black T-shirt and jeans. Slide on some sandals. Swipe the wine bottle off the counter, and I’m out the door.
The drive to Lucy’s parents’ house takes no time at all, and the scenery alone makes it feel like stepping into a damn postcard. Towering trees line the long driveway, their branches casting shadows across the gravel as the evening sun dips lower into the horizon. The house itself is a sprawling lakefront property, all windows and warm wood accents—it’s the kind of place that makes you pause andappreciate how lucky some people are to grow up here, surrounded by nature.
