I should have felt guilty for forcing him to adjust to my being there, but all I felt was frustration.
And attraction.
So much freaking attraction.
Well, I was done being a hermit-in-training. I needed entertainment, and since the wi-fi was spotty at best, Thorne Underwood was officially the only show in town.
I found him behind the cabin, standing near a massive pile of logs. And of course he was shirtless. The mountain air was crisp, but apparently, the labor of being a rugged cliché was enough to keep him warm. I stopped at the edge of the porch, leaning against the railing just to take him in.
God, he was a perfect specimen of manhood. His back was a map of hard-won muscle, shifting and rippling with every swing of the axe. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his skin that made him glow in the dappled sunlight. He raised the axe over his head—the movement stretching the skin over his ribs—and brought it down with a guttural crack that echoed through the trees. The log split perfectly in two.
“You know,” I called out, pushing off the porch and walking toward him. “They sell firewood at the store. It comes in neat little plastic bundles. Or those nice little starter logs. Very civilized.”
I wanted to poke the bear. I knew he couldn’t possibly rely on storebought wood to fuel the fireplace and keep the cabin warm when it was cold.
Neither my presence nor my color commentary made him stop and pay attention to me. He set up another log. “Store-bought wood is for tourists. It burns too fast.”
“And hand-chopped wood burns better because of the... what? The masculine resentment you’ve infused into it?”
He swung again. Another crack. Oh, how I wanted his grumpy, don’t-bother-me façade to crack just as easily. He finally paused, leaning the axe against his thigh and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He turned to look at me, his eyes dark and narrowed against the sun. “What are you doing out here, Maddie?”
“I’m following you,” I said plainly, stopping a few feet away. I crossed my arms, which had the added benefit of pushing my chest up. If he was going to be shirtless, I was going to try my best to be a distraction. “I’m bored.”
“Bored? I thought you wanted bored.”
“I did. I do, but.” I sighed. How could I confess that what I really wanted was him. My freaking lips still tingled from our wedding kiss, and every night, hearing him just behind the thin wall of my bedroom… I had no trouble occupying myself then. “I’ve read all the magazines I brought, and I can’t download any books thanks to your less than spectacular internet connection. Which, I might add, no one warned me about.”
“Go back inside. I’m working.”
“No. I’m your shadow today.” I followed him as he moved to stack the split wood. “What’s next on the agenda? Felling another tree? Glare at the clouds until they part?”
He let out a dry, huffing sound that was almost a laugh. “I’m fixing the porch steps. They’re rotted. If you stay out here, you’re going to get in the way.”
“I promise to be a very helpful, very quiet spectator. Or your unpaid helper. Isn’t that what mountain wives are supposed to do for their mountain man husbands.”
He froze for a moment as if he remembered that we were actually husband and wife and that did something to him.
I hope the thought was doing the same thing to him as it was doing for me.
Making him horny.
“You don’t have a quiet bone in your body,” he muttered, but he didn’t head back to the shed to hide. Instead, he grabbed a toolbox and headed for the front of the house.
I followed him. I followed him like a persistent, curvy ghost. Every time he knelt down to pry up a board, I was right there, leaning against the house or sitting on the top step, watchingthe play of muscles in his arms. The visuals were, quite frankly, devastating. He had these thick, powerful forearms covered in dark hair, and the way he handled his tools—with precision and a quiet, intense focus—made me wonder just how good he was at other things
Naughty. Sexy. Bedroom things.
“You’re staring,” he said without looking up. He was crouching in front of the steps, hammering a fresh plank into place.
“You’re providing a distraction.”
He looked up, jaw tight. “I’m working.”
“And I’m watching you work. These are both valid activities.” I settled more comfortably against the house. “It’s hard not to. You’re very... aesthetic, Thorne. It’s like watching a National Geographic special on the North American Grump.”
He looked up then, his jaw tight. “Is this how it’s going to be? You hovering over me while I work?”
“I’m providing moral support since you won’t let me venture out of the yard without you.” I stepped down to the grass, closer to where he was working. He smelled like sawdust, sweat, and that soap he used in the shower. The one I’d used this morning so I would smell like him. It was an intoxicating, earthy scent that made me want to lean in and press my nose against his chest.
