Page 6 of Her Grumpy Mountain Man

Maddox sets the axe down, and I assume he’s finished. But when he grabs the back of his shirt at the collar and pulls it over his head, my paperback slips against my knee, and my gaze drifts over his muscles.

He drops the shirt on a dry patch of the woodpile and turns toward the chopping block, bare from the waist up. I press my legs together beneath the quilt—hard, trying to stop my clit from throbbing. For one embarrassing second, that is the only thought I can manage—don’t fall apart just from looking at him.

His chest is broad and muscular, his skin warm in the late-morning sunlight. A pale scar near one shoulder and a small one along his ribs mark his skin. Dark hair lies across his chest, and when he reaches for the axe, the muscles in his arms shift.

I tell myself I should probably look away. Instead, I notice his stomach tighten as he lifts the axe. Then I notice that I’m holding my breath. I let it out slowly and stare at my book. The fictional lumberjack has no chance now; he pales in comparison to Maddox.

I turn another page, more determined than ever to see this story through.

“You’re reading fast.” Maddox’s voice makes me snap my head up.

He’s watching me from beside the chopping block, with one hand resting on the axe handle.

“I’m a fast reader.” I smooth the page with my palm.

His gaze drops to the book clutched in my hand, then back to my face. “Must be.” He reaches for the bottle of water he left on the woodpile. I watch him drink. That turns out to be a mistake, too. When he lowers the bottle, I’m still staring. He raises an eyebrow but says nothing about me watching him. The quilt feels suddenly much too warm, and I shift it in my lap.

“You cold?” He nods toward my lap.

“No.” I loosen my grip on the paperback. “Definitely not.”

He sets the bottle down, and for a moment I think he’s going to ask something else. Instead, he looks toward the trees, then returns to chopping wood. I’m grateful for the chance to recover, but I’m also disappointed enough to be annoyed with myself.

Ten minutes later, I’m still on the same page as he lays the axe safely in the shed. He gathers his shirt and walks toward the porch.

I sit a little straighter as he approaches. A faint sheen of sweat catches the light along his shoulders as he rubs his shirt across the back of his neck before he stops beside the swing.

“Room for me?” He touches the chain above my shoulder.

I slide over so quickly that the swing rocks. “Plenty.” I fold the quilt out of his way.

He sits beside me, leaving a small gap between us. His weight tips the seat toward him, and my hip slides along the cushion until it brushes his thigh.

I close my book, only for Maddox to glance at the cover, where a large, shirtless man stands in front of a cabin with an axe propped against his shoulder. I close my eyes, silently praying Maddox won’t say anything.

Beside me, Maddox goes very still—then he laughs.

I look at him. “Please don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.” He turns toward me, a smile on his face.

“You’re thinking it.” I set the book beside my leg, in the space between us.

His gaze moves from the paperback to the woodshed. “A lumberjack?”

“He’s more complicated than that.” I straighten the quilt, even though it doesn’t need straightening.

“What else is he?” Maddox looks back at me.

“Distracting.” I hesitate. “I’ve barely read a page, and you know why.”

He turns toward me, his knee brushing mine. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now.

I look at the shirt gathered in his hand. “You could put that back on.” I lift my gaze to his.

“Would that help?” He watches my face.

“No.” The answer comes out before I can soften my reply.