The log explodes. He doesn't just split the wood; he obliterates it.
I should clear my throat. I should announce myself. But my feet are rooted to the frozen mud. I’m an artist; I’ve spent years studying the human form, sketching models in drafty studios, trying to capture the essence of movement. But I’ve never seen anything like this. This isn't a model posing. This is raw, kinetic power.
He grabs another log, his biceps bulging as he sets it on the stump. Sweat gleams on his skin, tracing the valley of his spine.
My breath hitches. It’s a loud, pathetic sound in the quiet clearing.
He freezes.
He doesn't turn around immediately. The stillness that overtakes him is predatory, like a wolf catching a scent. The axe hangs loosely in one hand, heavy and dangerous. He buries the axe into the chopping block with a single-handed, bone-shatteringthud
Then, he turns.
If his back was a landscape of violence, his face is the aftermath of the war. He’s handsome, but in a brutal, devastating way. Dark hair, cut short on the sides, messy on top. A jawline sharp enough to cut glass, covered in a shadow of stubble. But it’s his eyes that spear me to the spot.
They are storm-gray, cold and flat. Until they land on me.
When our eyes lock, the air leaves my lungs in a rush. My diaphragm spasms. A jolt, hot and electric, arcs through my body, starting in my chest and shooting straight down to the apex of my thighs. A physical blow. A recognition.
Oh.
My soul doesn't whisper; it screams. It’s a terrifying, primal acknowledgment that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with biology. My nipples harden instantly against the wool of my sweater, an ache blooming deep in my belly.
He stares at me, unblinking. His nostrils flare slightly, and I swear he’s scenting the air, smelling the sudden spike in my pheromones.
His gaze drops. He rakes over me, not with politeness, but with a heavy, tactile weight. He looks at my boots, my jeans, the curveof my hips, the swell of my breasts hidden under the sweater. He lingers there. I feel exposed, as if he’s stripped the wool away and is looking at bare skin.
"Who are you?" His voice is a low rumble, like rocks grinding together deep underground. It vibrates in my bones.
“I’m here for the nanny position,” I say. My voice wants to shake, but I force it to stay level, meeting his cold, predatory gaze with every ounce of grit I have left. “And before you tell me I don’t belong here, know that I’ve spent the last three years staring at concrete walls and starving for my art. A big man with a scowl doesn’t even make the top ten of things that scare me.”
His eyes narrow. The storm in them darkens. He takes a step toward me, and I fight the urge to step back. Not out of fear—though I should be afraid—but because the magnetic pull toward him is so strong it’s dizzying. I need distance to keep my sanity.
"Nanny," he repeats, the word tasting like poison. "I told Tristan to take that damn ad down."
"Tristan?" I manage.
"My brother." He steps closer. He towers over me. He has to be at least six-four, maybe six-five. I’m five-seven, not exactly small, but he makes me feel delicate. Fragile. "You're not what I asked for."
My spine stiffens. The insult cuts through the haze of lust. "Excuse me? You don't even know my qualifications. I have a degree in?—"
"I don't care about your degree," he interrupts, his voice dropping an octave. He’s close now. Too close. I can smell him—hot skin, cedar, old sweat, and something inherently masculinethat makes my mouth water. "I asked for a standard helper. Old. Boring."
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, dragging over my body again. "You're not boring."
The statement isn't a compliment; it's an accusation.
"I need the job," I say, trying to sound professional, though my pulse thrashes against my throat. "I’m good with kids. I’m reliable. And I’m here."
He scoffs, a harsh sound. "You have no idea where you are, do you, sweetheart?"
The pet name is mocking, but it curls inside my stomach, warm and heavy. "I'm in Grizzly Peak. I know the reputation."
"Reputation," he echoes. His empty hand curls into a fist, the muscles in his forearm flexing, ropey and hard.
"You think you know? You drive your little yellow toy up here, looking like..." He trails off, his eyes locking on my hair, then my face. "Looking like trouble."
"I'm not trouble," I lie. I am trouble. I’m a mess. But I’m a determined mess. "I’m an artist. I’m just trying to make rent."
