Pete nodded once. “Good.” He reached down and turned the heating pad up another notch. “Just try not to scare her with the whole mysterious-forest-man routine.”
“I do not have a mysterious-forest-man routine.”
Pete scoffed. “You absolutely do.”
Considering that, I picked up the next log and set it on the block.
Pete grinned. “Boy, you got it bad.”
I brought the axe down, and the wood split neatly in half.
The impact ran up my arms and settled into my shoulders. Physical work helped burn off the restless energy sitting under my skin, and for the first time all morning, my mind stopped trying to reorganize itself around the memory of Zoey standing naked in her kitchen with a mischievous look on her face.
The problem was that I already knew I wasn’t capable of treating her casually. Whatever existed between us had moved past casual the moment she looked at my scars and told me she wanted to make someone pay for them—probably way before that if I was being honest with myself.
I stacked the wood carefully, piece by piece, trying very hard not to count the hours until I could text her without seeming desperate.
The next log also split cleanly.
The sound echoed through the trees.
As I lifted the axe again, a voice cut across the yard.
“Unbelievable.”
I lowered the axe.
Mr. Harlan stood at the edge of the gravel path, his arms crossed over his chest and his face twisted into the scowl that had become a regular feature of his face over the past year.
“Your guests,” he said, pointing toward the firepit area, “are loud…again.”
Three hikers sat around the pit, drinking coffee and arguing about whether bears were active this season. They were speaking at a perfectly normal volume.
I set the axe down. “Good morning, Mr. Harlan.”
“It is not a good morning,” he said immediately.
Pete watched the exchange with open interest as Mr. Harlan marched a few steps closer.
“I have lived next to this property for fifteen years,” he continued, “and lately there is constant noise. Talking. Laughing. Car doors slamming. People stomping around at all hours.”
“They checked in yesterday,” I said calmly. “They’re leaving tomorrow.”
“That is not the point.”
I nodded and suppressed a sigh. “What is the point?”
Mr. Harlan opened his mouth, closed his mouth, opening it again. He looked a little like a fish that had found itself on the lakeshore unexpectedly.
Pete leaned forward on his bucket.
Ordinarily, I was patient with Mr. Harlan. His complaints followed a familiar pattern. Noise. Parking. The smell of firewood drifting across his property on cool mornings. None of it was new, and none of it required confrontation. Most days I listened, nodded, and offered a solution that satisfied him enough to send him home feeling heard.
Today, my attention refused to stay where it belonged.
Zoey had been alone in her apartment for several hours now, and the thought had followed me across the property all morning, settling into the back of my mind and refusing to leave.
Was she resting, or had she already buried herself in work again? Had she remembered to eat something? The image of her limping slightly when she walked slammed into me. I’d noticed it when she got out of the car yesterday. She had brushed it off with that familiar shrug of hers, the same way she brushed off most things that mattered.
