Her lip quirks up nervously, like she’s testing me. Like she doesn’t know if I’m the kind of man who takes bribes or the kind who lets people fail.
I don’t say a damn thing. Just step forward, take the axe from her hands. She doesn’t protest. Just steps back, folding her arms like she suddenly doesn’t know how to fill the space between us. And I notice — too late — the way her sweater clings in the heat, how her stance is tentative but stubborn all at once.
It’s too hot to be doing this really, so I shrug and pull my shirt over my head, tossing it carelessly onto the railing. Now I’m left in just my white cotton vest, clinging to me with every movement.
She freezes. Stares. Hard.
Color rushes up her neck, creeping into her cheeks. She looks away too fast, whipping her hair across her face, like she’s trying to hide the reaction she didn’t ask for.
“Did you… Do that on purpose?” Her voice comes out strained, tentative, half-laughing. “For… you know… my benefit?”
“No.” Flat. Automatic. My shoulders stay square. “Don’t want to wrinkle it. Got business in town later.”
She smirks a little, just enough to irritate me. “Right. Lumberjack by day, businessman by night.”
I don’t laugh. Don’t even smirk. I glance at her sideways. “Neither applies to me, so knock it off.”
She tilts her head, playful, but there’s fire behind the teasing. “You’re no fun. You must be terrible at parties.”
“I don’t do parties.”
“And yet you appear to chop wood for random strangers in oversized sweaters.”
I lift one brow. “You call that random?”
She throws her hands up. “You’re no fun!”
I sigh — low, controlled, because I refuse to let her fluster me.
“I do plenty for people I choose. You’re… making it hard to categorize yourself.”
Her eyes flash, mouth quirking with something between irritation and delight. “So basically, I’m a challenge?”
“You’re a logistical headache,” I say, and I mean it. But I can’t deny — she’s more than that, too. Infuriating and magnetic.
She smirks at me again, folds her arms, shifts her weight. “Good. I like challenges.”
And I know we’re going to argue through the rest of this woodpile, because neither of us will back down, and neither of us can look away.
I plant my feet and split the first log cleanly. The axe bites through wood like it was nothing.
She jumps — just a fraction — then straightens, pretending she didn’t. Her eyes flick up at me, trying to look annoyed, but it’s weak. I catch the corner of her mouth twitching, failing to hide a smirk.
I set up the next log. Swing. Split. Repeat. Efficient. Precise. Silent.
She clears her throat.
“Do you always chop wood like that?” she asks, tone sharp but playful, like she’s daring me to answer.
“Do you always try to kill yourself with an axe?” I return evenly. Eyes on the next log.
Her lips twitch. “Touché. I was… testing it. Safety first.”
“Uh-huh.” I glance at her. She’s still fidgeting with the sleeves of that sweater. Shouldn’t she be sweating through this? She doesn’t look like she’s used to hard labor, yet she watches me like she’s learning something. Or judging. Probably both.
“Not bad,” she murmurs. “You make it look… easy.”
I shrug. “Practice. Don’t want splinters in my hands.”
