“Even that one?” I nudged the mysterious T-shaped tool with my toe.
“Postholer—for holing posts.”
“Holing posts?”
His chuckle was soft and teasing, not a cruel note to be found. “Digging holes for posts. Now, we need to see if there are any downed trees—we’ll need timber.”
“I thought you sent Lock for some.”
“I did—but we’re going to need quite a bit. And we might as well use what you already have.”
“But…”
“Xander, come for a walk in the forest with me.” His voice was low and soft, and my body reacted before my head—with a tightening in my breeches and a flutter in my belly.
“Right, yes. Yes.” My nod was too enthusiastic, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he slung one axe over his shoulder before guiding me with a hand on the small of my back over to the small copse of trees lining the pond.
Tom Grayson was a tease.
A tease that was forcing me to carry half of a massive tree. If I was being honest, massive was an overstatement. But still—an entire tree—third of a tree—he’d cut it down into smaller pieces first. But basically a tree. While it wasn’t terribly heavy, it was sticky with sap. The sensation left my skin crawling as I trailed Tom out of the wooded area.
The unpleasantness of the tacky, viscous goo on my hands nearly outweighed the delightful view of Tom’s shoulders straining to carry the tree and the play of the muscles in his bottom as he navigated the terrain. And it was a lovely bottom, firm and round and worthy of admiration—or it would have been if he weren’t responsible for the gluey gelatinous substance all over my hands and waistcoat.
Godfrey would have a fit. Rightfully so.
Once freed of the woodland copse, Tom picked up speed, leaving me to stumble after him. He must have sensed my struggle because he turned and caught my gaze before slowing again.
“Sorry!” he called back.
“You should be!”
“I know, I know. It’s covered in sap. And sap is sticky.”
“I don’t like sticky things.”
“So you’ve said.”
The words were a familiar reproach. I was whining. He was doing me a favor and I was being difficult and demanding. Ungrateful. Too much. I’d heard all of those things before. While I couldn’t hear the admonishing note in his voice, an apology was due.
“I apologize. I’m being rude.”
Tom’s stop was sudden, jarring. Gently, he set his half of the tree down, and came to my side. His eyes were wide—concerned. “You don’t need to apologize. Itissticky. I don’t like it either.”
“Yes, but you’re helping. You don’t need a litany of complaints while you do.”
“What is this about?”
My head hinged back toward the sky, it was lighter, with more grey than his eyes. “I’ve been told I can be a little… peevish.”
“I know. I like it. I like knowing what is upsetting you—so I can fix it. Or try to, I suppose. I cannot fix everything, of course. And I do need your help to carry the wood. But I like knowing what is bothering you. I’m a second son. I’ve been idle most of my life. It feels good to have a purpose—an easily identifiable problem to solve. Your problems specifically.”
“But—”
“And I hate guessing. Michael and Hugh have been butting heads my entire life. I’ve spent years guessing what was upsetting one or the other and trying to smooth it over. I may be good at it, but it’s exhausting, constantly searching for pitfalls, trying to keep myself and everyone else out of them. And most of their problems would be solved by simply talking to each other. But instead, they get in a snit and stop speaking entirely.”
“You don’t feel I’m ungrateful?”
“Oh, you very much are.”
