“You did.” I can’t help smiling at her excitement. “Again.”
She splits three more before her arms start shaking. I notice her wince when she adjusts her grip, see the way she’s favoring her right hand.
“Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“Claire.” I take the axe, set it aside, then grab her hands. Her palms are red, a blister forming at the base of her right thumb. The skin’s hot under my fingertips, raised and tender. She hisses when I press too hard, and I ease up, tracing the angry pink edges with my thumb. “You should’ve stopped two logs ago.”
“I was on a roll.”
“You’re stubborn as hell.” I examine the blister, and something in my chest tightens. Her hands are soft, unmarked except for that old bike scar. Surgeon’s hands. And she’s out here risking them to split wood with me. “These are your livelihood.”
She looks up at me, defiant. “I wanted to do this with you, and I don’t care about a tiny blister.”
The honesty of it hits me sideways, and it scares the hell out of me how much I care.
“Come on.” I pull her toward the house. “I’ve got a first aid kit inside.”
“Hunter, I’m fine—”
“Inside. Now.”
She follows, grumbling about bossy lumberjacks and overprotective men. I like her grumbling. And I like that she feels comfortable enough to complain.
Inside, I point to the couch. “Sit.”
She does, and I grab the first aid kit from under the bathroom sink. When I come back, she’s looking around the stone home like she’s cataloging details. The fireplace I built. The floors I laid. The rough-hewn beams overhead.
“You made all this?”
“Most of it.” I kneel in front of her, take her hand. “The stone exterior’s original from the thirties. Everything else I renovated over the years.”
I clean the blister with antiseptic. She doesn’t flinch, just watches my face while I work. When I bandage her thumb, my hands are gentle, careful. These rough, scarred hands that swing axes and haul logs, being as soft as I know how.
“There.” I don’t let go. Just hold her hand, trace my thumb over the bandage. “Better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
We’re close like this, me kneeling between her legs, her hand in mine. From here I can see the rise and fall of her breathing and the way her lace bra shifts with each inhale. The home is quiet except for the clock ticking on the mantle and our breathing. But it’s not the time. Not yet.
“I need to tell you something,” I say.
“Okay.”
“A guy named Derek Chen starts at the mill tomorrow.”
Her whole body tenses. “Oh.”
“He’s our new safety consultant.” I watch her face, a vein throbbing at her temple, tiny and insistent. It’s gone quiet except for the clock on the mantle and the creak of leather under us. “That’s your ex, right?”
“How did you know?”
“I may have looked at your socials before the wedding.” I squeeze her hand at the small smile on her lips. “Is Derek going to be a problem?”
“For who?”
“For you. Me. Us.” I meet her eyes, something possessive and primal uncoiling in my gut. “Because I need to know if him being around is going to make things weird.”
