I cleared my throat. “Anyway, we can drive to Keene and get what you need. Or even Lake Placid.”
“Keene is fine.” Charles’s voice was slightly hoarse.
“Good. I’m gonna…” I vaguely gestured toward the door, then flew outside like a coward.
It took almost five minutes for my heart rate to come down and my cock to deflate, even while focusing on setting up motion sensors and cameras.
An hour later,we were winding down the narrow mountain road toward Keene, the BMW handling the curves with surprising grace despite being designed more for city streets than mountain passes. Luckily, I had picked the all-wheel drive option, knowing I might have to drive in the snow, and boy, was I grateful for that foresight now.
Keene turned out to be exactly the kind of place that time forgot—a cluster of white buildings nestled in a valley between two mountains, with a general store that lookedlike it hadn’t changed since the 1950s. The proprietor, a weathered man in his sixties with kind eyes and work-rough hands, greeted us with that classic casual friendliness.
“You just passing through town?” he asked as Charles loaded a basket with coffee, flour, milk, and some fresh fruits and produce.
“We’re here for the fall colors,” I said. “Needed to get away from the city for a bit.”
“Best place for it.” The older man nodded approvingly. “Mountains have a way of putting things in perspective. You’ll find what you’re looking for up here, mark my words.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what we were looking for, but I kept that thought to myself.
Charles charmed the locals the way he charmed everyone—with genuine interest and that warm smile that made people want to tell him their life stories. By the time we left, he’d gotten recommendations for the best hiking trails, found out which restaurants to avoid, and somehow convinced the store owner’s wife to part with her secret recipe for apple butter.
“You’re good at that,” I observed as we loaded our purchases into the car.
“At what?”
“Making people like you. Trust you.”
Charles shrugged, but I caught the pleased flush that colored his cheeks. “I like people. Most of them, anyway. And small-town folks are usually happy to help if you ask nicely.”
The drive back up the mountain was more relaxed, with Charles pointing out views he’d missed on the way down and already making plans for how to organize the kitchen supplies. Watching him plan and organize, even in thistemporary space, made something warm settle in my chest. He was nesting, trying to create order and comfort even amid chaos.
Back at the cabin, Charles threw himself into the task of making our temporary refuge more livable while I tackled the more practical matter of firewood. The pile beside the cabin was running low, and October nights in the mountains could get brutally cold. The high peaks had already been dusted with the first snow, and by the time winter officially hit, there’d be a few feet, if not more.
I found the axe in a small shed behind the cabin, its handle worn smooth by decades of use. It felt good in my hands—solid, purposeful, the kind of tool that connected you to something fundamental about survival. I’d chopped plenty of wood growing up, back when keeping the fire burning was the difference between warmth and misery during Ireland’s wet, gray winters.
The first few swings felt awkward as my body remembered the rhythm, but I soon fell into the familiar pattern of lift, swing, split. The physical labor felt good after days of tension and inactivity, my muscles loosening as I worked through the pile of massive tree logs, methodically chopping them into smaller firewood.
I was so focused on the work that I didn’t notice Charles watching me until I paused to strip off my sweater, the October air now warm against my skin. When I looked up, he was standing on the cabin’s small front porch, a mug in his hands and an expression on his face that made my mouth go dry.
He wasn’t even trying to hide it—the way his eyes tracked the movement of my shoulders, lingered on my arms as I lifted the axe, dropped to watch the flex of musclesin my back. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and I felt an answering heat curl low in my belly.
“Enjoying the show?” I called out, unable to resist teasing him.
His cheeks went pink, but he didn’t look away. “Maybe. You’re very…energetic.”
Christ, the way he said it, all breathless and appreciative, made me want to drop the axe and cross the clearing to kiss him senseless. Instead, I forced myself to turn back to the woodpile, hyperaware of his gaze on me as I continued working.
“Thought you might want some water,” Charles said eventually, and when I looked over, he was walking toward me with a glass in his outstretched hand.
I set down the axe and accepted the water gratefully, trying not to notice how close he was standing or the way he seemed to find excuses to let his fingers brush mine when he handed me the glass.
“Thanks.” I drained half the glass in one go, then used the hem of my T-shirt to wipe sweat from my forehead. Charles’s eyes followed the movement, his pupils dilating as a strip of skin was briefly exposed.
“How much more do you need to chop?” he asked, his voice slightly strangled.
“Maybe another twenty minutes’ worth.” I gestured toward the remaining logs. “Want to help? I could show you how to swing an axe properly.”
“I think I’d probably lose a limb,” Charles said with a laugh. “I’ll just…supervise from a safe distance.”
