I take another step into the shop and release my grip on the flannel, so it slides over my shoulder a little bit.
Holt’s nostrils flare, and he looks away,back to the board in his hand. “I’m working.” His voice is low, almost a growl.
“I can see that.” I lean against the doorjamb and let my eyes rake slowly over him. “I like watching you work.”
He sucks in a breath and shakes his head before setting the board down and turning around to face me properly.
“I’m done,” he announces, even though I’m sure he’s lying. “You should go back inside.”
“Why don’t you come inside if you’re done out here?”
That earns me a look. Not sharp or amused. Something laced with danger. I can’t help but like the fact that I’m pushing his buttons.
He flicks the switch on the machine. “I need to go split some wood. You can wait inside.”
He reaches for his jacket and tries to move past me, but I step in front of him. “You keep saying that,” I say. “But I’d rather be outside.”
“It’s still raining.”
“So?” I shrug. “I don’t mind getting wet.” I raise my brow, and again, he growls and shakes his head.
I know I’m playing with firewhen it comes to Holt. But I can’t seem to stop myself. In fact, every time he objects or tries to throw up walls between us with his gruffness, it only makes me want to try harder.
I am nothing if not persistent.
Once I set my mind to something, I get it. And I have definitely set my mind on Holt.
Holt
She’s a brat, and she’s way over her head with me. Even if she doesn’t seem to realize it.
The shy, quiet girl from the night before has been completely replaced by a much more confident, sassy version of Tessa, and it’s clear I’m not going to be able to tell her to do anything.
I take a step back, and my eyes flick to the oversized flannel hanging off her—myflannel—and then quickly away again because it looks too good on her.
“Suit yourself,” I mutter, already moving past her to the door.
The workshop is where I come to settle my mind and focus. Working with wood,shaping it and bending it to my will, has never failed to center me.
Until today.
Maybe the physical exertion of chopping wood will do the trick.
Outside, the rain has eased to a steady drizzle. The air is cool and fresh, and though spring is in the air, its promise isn't guaranteed; an early-season storm like this could still easily turn to snow up here in the mountains.
The woodshed is just beyond the shop. I built a shelter over my wood years ago to keep the heavy snow load off during the winter, and it also comes in handy during weather like this.
Logs are stacked neatly beside the chopping block, with already-split pieces lining the walls of the space.
There’s already plenty split, but that doesn’t matter. I can already feel my muscles aching for the release of physical exertion.
I shrug out of my jacket and toss it aside before reaching for the axe and setting up my first log.
I don’t hesitate as I swing the heavy maul and crack into the log.
The strike is powerful and clean, splitting the wood straight down the middle.
My movements are efficient and practiced, muscle memory taking over as I lose myself to the rhythm of the work.
