Page 2

Sawyer

The axe bites through the wood with a clean, satisfying crack. The sun’s out just enough to glint off the edge of the blade and catch on the sweat running down my back. It’s warm today, unseasonably so for early spring. The kind of warmth that clings to your skin and makes your clothes feel heavy.

I don’t bother with a shirt. No point. I’m already drenched, and it’s not like anyone’s coming up here. No one ever does. Not unless they’re lost. Or trying to sell me something. Neither of which ends well.

I line up the next log on the stump, roll my shoulders, and swing. There’s comfort in this work. In the rhythm. The sound. The sting in my palms and the ache in my forearms. Out here, the noise in my head gets quieter. Just me and the trees and the weight of the axe in my hands.

I’m halfway through the next swing when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel. My grip tightens. It’s not the mail guy. He only comes on Mondays. Not the supply truck either; it’s too light. This is something smaller and driving very slow.

I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my arm and glance toward the tree line just as a car eases around the bend, kicking up dust and pine needles. Shiny. Red. Small. Not the best car for a mountain road. It crawls up my drive like it knows it doesn’t belong here, which—spoiler alert—is true.

I see the driver and almost drop my axe. She steps out like she’s on a runway instead of a muddy clearing in the woods. Skinny jeans. A fitted jacket that’s probably never seen dirt. And boots with heels, for Christ’s sake. Completely impractical and exactly the kind of thing someone from the city would wear when they think they’re doing “rustic.”

She’s tall. Curvy in a way that makes a man notice. Hair in a high ponytail that’s already being tugged loose by the wind. She shades her eyes with one hand, squints up at me like I’m the one who’s out of place.

Great. I sink the axe into the stump and wait.

She takes a few cautious steps forward, blinking against the sun. “Hi,” she says, voice bright and a little breathless. “Are you Sawyer Holt?”

I don’t answer right away. Just stare. Because what the hell is she doing up here?

She clears her throat, the smile on her lips faltering slightly. “I’m Tessa Hart. I’m a journalist with Roam magazine. I’m working on a—”

“No.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m not interested.” I reach for the axe.

“You don’t even know what I’m here to ask.”

“I know enough.”

She plants her hands on her hips, those curves doing exactly what they’re supposed to under that jacket, and cocks her head. “You’re here about those damn photos, aren’t you?”

She blinks. “So you’ve seen them?”

“I don’t have to. Dottie printed one out and tacked it to the general store bulletin board like I’m the special of the week.”

I turn away, grabbing a log and setting it on the stump.

“Listen,” she says, following me. “The account has gone viral. People are obsessed. They want to know who you are, what you do, where you buy your flannel.”

“I don’t wear flannel.”

“Not today, but according to the pictures, you do.”

I shoot her a look. She doesn’t back down. She’s a city girl, but not soft. There’s something in her stance, chin lifted, shoulders squared, that says she’s not easily rattled. Even out here. Even staring down a sweaty, shirtless stranger with an axe.

“I’m not a story,” I tell her.

She shrugs. “Everyone’s a story.”

“Well, I don’t want to be yours.”

The log splits clean under my next swing. She watches me, her lips slightly parted, her eyes tracing the movement.

Yeah, she’s checking me out. She tries not to show it, but I see the flush in her cheeks, the way her gaze flicks over my chest, then quickly away.

“Look,” she says, a little breathier now. “I’m not here to make your life difficult. I just want a quote. Maybe a short interview. Something about how a town full of hot, antisocial men became the internet’s favorite fantasy.”

“There’s no fantasy here,” I say flatly.

She makes a sound, half laugh, half scoff, and pulls her phone from her pocket. Swipes to something and holds it up.

It’s me. Or at least, the version of me Dottie captured that snowy afternoon a few winters back. Flannel. Beard full of snow. Eyes like I hadn’t slept in a week. Yeah. Fantasy.

“Tell that to the 820,000 people who liked this,” she says. “You’ve been turned into a lumberjack thirst meme.”

I grunt. “Great.”

“Don’t you want to set the record straight?”

“No.”

The wind kicks up, rustling the pine trees and tugging her hair across her face. She brushes it back, her mouth pressing into a stubborn line.

“Are you always this friendly?”

“Are you always this pushy?”

“Only when someone slams a metaphorical, or literal, door in my face.”

Another crack of wood. She doesn’t flinch. Impressive.

“You should go,” I say. “Before the rain hits.”

She doesn’t move. Just looks at me with those eyes, brown, warm, and sharp. Like she’s already writing this scene in her head, framing me as the brooding mountain recluse with a tragic past and a well-defined six-pack.

“I came all this way,” she says quietly. “The least you could do is give me five minutes.”

I roll my jaw, exhale hard through my nose. “There’s no story here.”

“Then that’s your quote,” she says, and spins on her heel to head back to her car.

But she doesn’t get far. Right as she turns around, the sky cracks open with a rumble that vibrates through the ground and the rain comes down in sheets.

She yelps, ducking her head, sprinting for the car. I wince as her boots slip on the mud, and she catches herself against the hood.

The woman looks like a drowned cat in a fashion ad. Mascara streaked. Hair plastered to her face. That fancy jacket clinging to every inch of her body in a way that absolutely shouldn’t be legal. I swear under my breath and jog after her.

“You shouldn’t drive in this!” I shout over the rain. “The road could wash out.”

“I’ll risk it,” she yells back, fumbling with her keys.

A loud crack echoes through the trees. That’s not thunder. I turn just in time to see the pine tree, massive, old, and heavy with water, fall across the road behind her car with a crash that shakes the ground.

“Shit,” I mutter, and she spins, eyes wide.

“Well, that’s not ideal,” she says.

I shoot her a look. “You’re stuck.”

“No kidding,” she mutters, brushing wet hair from her face. “What are the odds?”

She stares at the tree like she’s trying to will it to vanish. The rain’s only getting heavier, and her boots are already caked in mud. She’s soaked through. Shivering. I can’t leave her out here.

I sigh and jerk my head toward the cabin. “Come on.”

She blinks. “What?”

“You can’t stay out here.”

“I wasn’t planning to build a treehouse.”

I level her with a look.

She groans. “Fine.”

She follows me back up the drive, muttering something about horror movies and axe murderers. Her boots squelch in the mud. She slips again and grabs my arm for balance, then yanks her hand back like I burned her.

I don’t say anything, but I feel the heat of that touch all the way through my skin.

The cabin’s warm, dry, and smells like firewood and cedar. I hold the door open and watch her hesitate before stepping inside.

She looks around, wide-eyed. “It’s rustic.”

“It’s a cabin. Not a spa.”

“Could use a throw pillow.”

I grab a towel from the hook and toss it to her. “You’re dripping all over my floor.”

“Charming,” she says, but wraps it around herself. “Got a hair dryer? Hot cocoa? Flannel pajamas with little bears on them?”

“No. Yes. And maybe.”

She laughs. I hate that I like the sound of it. I head to the kitchen, stoke the fire, and try not to watch her strip off her jacket, revealing a soaked white T-shirt underneath.

She notices me noticing. Smirks. “This interview’s looking up, huh?”

I grunt and turn away, grabbing a pot to start dinner, but all I can think about is the way her shirt clings to her body. The way her mouth curves when she’s teasing me. The way my name sounds when she says it like a challenge.

This woman is a walking complication, and I don’t like complications. But I like her, and that’s a problem.