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Mayor Bloomfield: Not sure how much help I’ll be, but happy to chat. City Hall tomorrow?

Cole had shown it to Emily over text, and she’d replied with three words: I’ll be there.

She had half an hour, give or take.

He’d work through another two or three bundles in the meantime. He’d promised Mrs. Henderson wood for the week, and old Mr. Graff on Birch who still hadn’t gotten his generator looked at, and a couple of the older residents on the south side who were still struggling to get out since the storm. He stacked as he split, building neat bundles of five that he’d tie and load into the truck bed later.

The rhythm felt good. Solid. The sharp crack of the axe, the clean scent of split pine, the burn building in his shoulders and back. Despite the cold, he was starting to sweat. He shoved the sleeves of his thermal shirt up past his elbows, exposing the corded muscle of his forearms, and kept going.

He heard the gate creak open behind him.

Cole didn’t stop or turn around right away. He set another log on the chopping block, lifted the axe high, and brought it down with a solid thwack, splitting it clean in one swing. He could feel eyes on him. Probably one of the neighbors again.

He rolled his shoulders, aware of how the damp fabric clung to his back and chest. Then he heard the soft crunch of boots on snow—lighter steps than Mr. Graff’s—and something in his gut tightened with recognition.

Emily.

A slow, wicked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. She wasn’t announcing herself. She was watching.

Well then.

Cole made a show of it.

He set two logs side by side this time, something he rarely bothered with, and brought the axe down hard enough to split both in a single powerful stroke. The motion made the muscles in his shoulders and arms flex hard under the tight thermal. He felt her stare like a physical touch.

He straightened, rolling his neck, then reached down and tugged the hem of his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face—deliberately giving her a flash of his abs and the deep V that disappeared into his jeans. He heard her breath catch.

That was all the encouragement he needed.

He kept working, but every movement was just a little more theatrical. Each swing of the axe was controlled, powerful, the muscles in his back and arms standing out with every strike. He made sure she could see the way his shoulders bunched and released, the way his forearms flexed when he gripped the axe, the way his jeans sat low on his hips when he bent to grab another log.

After a particularly clean swing, he finally turned around, axe resting casually over one broad shoulder, breathing a little harder than necessary. His shirt clung to his chest with sweat.

Emily was leaning against the fence post, looking far too tempting for a winter afternoon. She wore a fitted navy puffer coat unzipped just enough to reveal a soft cream sweater that hugged her breasts. Dark jeans clung to her hips and thighs, tucked into tall brown boots that made her legs look endless.

Cole smirked, slow and heated.

“Enjoying the show, Whitaker?”

Emily didn’t even try to deny it. She let her gaze drag shamelessly down his body, from his shoulders to the sweat-damp fabric stretched across his chest, then lower.

“You’re putting on quite the performance,” she said, voice a little huskier than usual. “Didn’t realize chopping wood could be foreplay.”

Cole chuckled low in his chest and set the axe down. He stalked toward her, slow and deliberate, knowing exactly what he looked like, all flushed, sweaty, muscles pumped from exertion.

He stopped just short of touching her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

“Figured if you were going to stare, I might as well make it worth your while.”

Emily didn’t say a word.

She simply closed the distance, took the front of his damp thermal in both hands, and kissed him.

Cole met her without hesitation. He kissed her with his full attention, one hand sliding into her hair, the other finding her waist and pulling her in as he walked her gently backward until her shoulders met the wooden privacy fence.

The kiss deepened on its own, the way their kisses did, neither of them stopping or slowing down. His hand moved under the hem of her coat, warm against the small of her back, and she made a soft sound against his mouth that he was going to think about for the rest of the day. Her fingers tightened at his shoulders. He pulled her closer.

He couldn’t quite get enough of her. That was the problem. He’d had two days of her, and he still couldn’t get enough, and part of him that was accustomed to being very disciplined about things was finding this new information deeply inconvenient.