Page 127 of Grumpy on the Mountain

For a moment, I just sit there in the wreckage of my mountain woman fantasy, covered in dirt and probably looking like I've been wrestling bears.

Then I start laughing.

Not the bitter, exhausted laugh I've been doing for months, but actual, genuine amusement at the absurdity of my situation.

Dr. Brooke Shields, trauma surgeon extraordinaire, defeated by a piece of firewood and a decorative planter.

Thisis what Piper meant.

This feeling of doing something completely ridiculous without the weight of life-or-death consequences. When's the last time I've been this gloriously, harmlessly incompetent at something?

"Well," I say, picking splinters out of my hair. "Mission accomplished. I am definitely bad at this, and it definitely doesn't matter."

That's when I hear it.

A rhythmicthunk, thunk, thunkcoming from the same direction of the music.

That music that I heard… yeah, that's definitely real. I haven't completely lost my mind. It's not in my head at all, and the fast beat of the drums is matching the heavy sound of an axe hitting wood with perfect, consistent precision.

Someone who actually knows what they're doing.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I dust myself off, creeping toward the sound. There's a tall wooden fence separating my rental property from whatever's next door, but if I stand on my tiptoes near the corner and crane my neck just right...

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

The man in the yard next to mine is... well, let's just say he's not struggling with wood-chopping technique.

At all.

Thick dark hair falls across his forehead, damp with exertion, and sweet mother of pearl, the man is built like a fantasy.

Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, every muscle defined and flexing with each movement.

And this isn't gym muscle.

This is real, functional strength earned through actual labor.

I watch him position another log, the movement making his back muscles ripple. He lifts the axe overhead, biceps bulging, abs contracting, and I swear I can see the individual ridges of muscle across his torso.

When he brings the blade down, the wood splits with a satisfying crack that reverberates through my core and settles somewhere much lower.

No bouncing. No sticking. No dramatic tumbling into decorative planters.

Just pure, masculine competence that makes heat pool between my thighs and my brain temporarily forget how to form thoughts that don't involve licking the sweat off his chest.

Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker.

I'm completely mesmerized.

Like, full-on sexual awakening happening behind this fence while I watch a stranger split wood like some kind of lumberjack porn fantasy come to life.

A bead of sweat trails down his spine before disappearing into the waistband of jeans that hug what can only be described as the most spectacular ass I've ever had the privilege to ogle.

The denim clings to powerful thighs and…God help me… outlines what appears to be a very generous package in the front.

My nipples tighten against my sports bra, and there's a definite pulse of want between my legs.

The mental image of him using that same focused intensity on my body, of those hands gripping my hips, that mouth trailing down my neck…