There’s nothing left for me to do but wait for the soup to simmer for a long while, so I decide to grab a beer and bring it out to him. I haven’t really heard much noise while he’s been out there, but I have been listening to music while cooking.
As I approach the fridge, I stare at the postcard and magnet of the Adirondack Mountains I cheekily put on his refrigerator. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to learn that I’d left his truck for a few minutes and ducked into a mom-and-pop shop to pick up these little souvenirs.
I told myself I wanted to start collecting things that bring me joy, and these old-school postcards and cheesy magnets did just the trick. I’m clearly still on the journey of trying to decipher who I really am versus who I’ve been molded to be, and this small purchase made me feel like I was moving a step in the right direction.
But if I’m being honest, I probably hopped out of his truck and into the store because I needed to walk around and get some fresh air. Especially after hearing a woman shamelessly flirt with Luke. Followed by him saying that he was buying cereal for his wife. A wife who apparently loves the same kind of cereal I do.
I must be getting altitude sickness. I have no idea what the elevation is here, but I’m sure that’s a thing. And it must be a reason my mind is suddenly all over the place when it comes to Luke. My friend.
Friend. Friend. Friend, I remind myself as I open the refrigerator.
I’m surprised to find that he bought ciders as well as everything on my list. I’m not exactly a huge drinker, and I’ve mentioned that ciders kind of feel like grown-up apple juice, so they’re easier for me to tolerate.
I smile as I grab two and make my way out back. I tuck a beer into the crook of my elbow as I open the sliding door before holding it steady in my hand again.
And thank God for that.
Because had I been looking at what was waiting for me beyond these windows, I might have shattered both beers on the ground.
Actually, I’m sure of it.
Because a few yards before me stands a shirtless Luke in low riding Wranglers, wiping the sweat off his brow with his forearm.
His chest glistens in the warm afternoon sun as my eyes trace over every divot and pronounced muscle on his body.
But I almost swallow my tongue when I realize there was one little fun fact I was kept completely in the dark about when it came to Luke.
He has tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos.
I’ve never questioned why he’s always worn those long-sleeved sweat-resistant, shirts under his uniform, even in the summer months. But I guess this is why.
My eyes eat up the small scatterings of cursive handwriting and artistic designs that trace up his biceps. They adorn his ribs and pecs too, curling around his shoulders and leading down his back. Tiny sparrows, roman numerals, and abstract art decorate his skin perfectly.
But the ill-fated death to my new panties comes when he picks up a small piece of wood and places it on a tree stump. He then bends and picks up an axe.
The fact that I’m at a secluded cabin in the woods with a white man wielding an axe should have me searching for my survival skills.
But damn if this view wouldn’t be a good way to go out if it’s my time.
There could be a pack of wolves running my way and I wouldn’t even notice at a time like this.
Luke expertly lifts the axe over his head and swings it down, perfectly cutting the piece of wood in two. I don’t know if there’s a certain form for chopping wood, but it seems like a ten out of ten from where I’m standing.
I shouldn’t be ogling him. The man is simply doing some manual labor, and there are about a million and one reasons whyletting my mind go down this path is a bad idea, but I can’t help myself from staying rooted to the spot and living a little, even if it’s just for a few minutes.
Imagining what it would feel like to be pinned down by that body, worked over by those hands. To trace each of those abs with my tongue until I drift down and taste—
“Daisy girl, you thirsty over there?”
My eyes snap up from Luke’s abs to his face.
His very smug-looking face.
Oh God, how long has he known that I’ve been watching him? I must have lost track of time since I’m sure Ginuwine’s “Pony” song played on a loop multiple times as he worked log after log.
Stop thinking about his log, woman.
Yet my eyes take a quick detour down and back up again.
