Page 10 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Gage

But now, under this heavy quilt, there’s heat pressed up against my side, soft breathing in rhythm with mine, and a scent that’s warm and sweet and all kinds of dangerous.

It’s peaches, vanilla, and maybe whatever magical lotion makes a woman smell like trouble wrapped in sugar, sass, and poor decisions.

A scent that makes a man think about things he absolutely shouldn’t be thinking.

Like how soft her skin might feel under his fingers.

Or how her hair would smell if he buried his face in it.

Or how much worse this situation would be if she wakes up right now and finds certain body parts on me harder than they should be.

Tessa's curled up next to me, one arm flung across her pillow and the other tucked against her chest like she’s mid-cuddle with a teddy bear.

Her mouth is slightly open, lashes resting against flushed cheeks, and that riot of dark hair is fanned across the pillow like some shampoo commercial exploded overnight.

And God help me, she looks nothing like the hurricane who tried to chainsaw a tree off my land yesterday and managed to break her toe in the process.

No, right now she looks soft. Peaceful. Pretty in a way that sneaks up and sucker punches me in the chest. Fuck me.

I tell myself not to stare. Not to think about how good she smells or how ridiculously kissable her mouth is when it’s not spewing hateful rhetoric towards an ex-fiancé.

I remind myself that she’s here because she got dumped and stranded in an early spring snowstorm, not because the universe is playing matchmaker.

And I absolutely do not imagine what it would feel like to brush my lips against the curve of her jaw.

And yet, here I am.

Which is exactly the problem. I should not be here—mentally or physically—marveling at the woman currently in my bed.

I’m not some hormone-driven teenager with a crush.

I’m a grown man. A rational adult. A former Army Ranger who’s survived firefights, IEDs, and a diet consisting entirely of MREs.

I can absolutely survive sharing a bed with a beautiful, funny, chaos-wielding tornado in human form. Right?

Wrong.

Here I am, dangerously close to becoming a cliché. And not even the cool kind. Nope. I'd be the kind that ends up doing stupid shit like carving her initials into wood or knitting her a hat out of dog hair or some other lovesick nonsense.

I scrub a hand down my face, mutter a string of colorful self-directed insults, and fling off the covers. If I don’t get out of this bed and put some distance between me and the walking temptation snoring beside me, I’m going to end up doing something we’ll both regret. Like kissing her awake.

Time to make breakfast. Use my hands for cooking instead of letting them wander somewhere they shouldn’t.

I sigh and slide out of bed, careful not to jostle her or the two dogs currently using our legs as bunk beds. Toby grumbles in protest but doesn’t move. Traitor.

I walk through the house, arms wrapped tightly around myself as a shiver rattles down my spine.

The cold hits like a slap—sharp, biting, and impossible to ignore.

My breath fogs in the air as I move, and I can see the frost clinging to the inside of the windows like spiderwebs spun by Elsa in a mood.

I curse under my breath, grab an armload of kindling and a couple of logs, and kneel by the fireplace.

The flint sparks on the first try—minor miracles—and soon flames crackle to life, throwing much-needed warmth into the room.

I hold my hands out to it, muttering a silent prayer of thanks for fire, flannel, and that I didn’t freeze to death in my own house.

In the kitchen, I set a pot of coffee to brew and feed the dogs—because clearly, I need something stronger than willpower to get through this morning.

Then, I rummage through the fridge and pantry, hoping for inspiration.

I come up with eggs, bacon, and a couple of potatoes that look like they’ve seen better days.

They’re lumpy, borderline tragic, and definitely giving me side-eye.

They are potatoes. Still, with a little faith and some aggressive grating, I can probably convince them to become hash browns.

As I peel one of the potatoes with all the enthusiasm of a man scraping barnacles off a boat, it hits me—I haven’t gone into town in weeks.

Maybe longer. Supplies were fine when it was just me, but now I’ve got a surprise roommate who eats and drinks like a normal human.

I’ll have to ration a bit, be strategic with meals.

Get creative. Maybe finally figure out what the hell that unlabeled can in the back of the pantry is.

Please let it be soup and not pickled beets.

My hands move on autopilot—cracking eggs, laying out bacon, frying the moody potatoes—as I focus on the rhythm of breakfast. It’s the only thing keeping me from crawling back into that bed and doing something real dumb.

Like kissing the woman currently passed out in my flannel shirt.

Or watching her sleep again like some kind of creep. Nope. Cooking is safer.

As breakfast is coming together and the room is warming up to an almost tolerable temperature,Tessa appears from the bedroom, bleary-eyed and adorably disoriented, wearing my flannels. She yawns, then narrows her eyes like it's against the laws of nature for her to be awake and vertical.

I lean against the kitchen counter, mug in hand, watching her shuffle in like a zombie who just realized coffee exists.

"Good morning. How'd you sleep?" I ask, my voice low so I don't startle her fully awake. She blinks, squints at me like I’ve just asked her to run a marathon, then yawns so wide I half expect her jaw to pop. It’s kind of adorable, not that I’ll ever say that out loud.

She squints at me, her voice a sleepy groan. "Are you always this chipper in the morning, or is this some kind of Alaskan survival thing where you pretend to be cheerful so you don’t freeze to death?"

I snort. "I’m not chipper. I’m caffeinated. There’s a difference."

She pads into the kitchen with both dogs glued to her sides like fuzzy security detail, eyes locked on the coffeepot like it holds the secrets of the universe. Her voice is scratchy and full of sleep as she mumbles, "Tell me it’s ready. Or tell me where you hide the caffeine IV drip."

I pour her a cup and slide it over. She wraps her fingers tightly around the mug, as if soaking in every bit of heat it can offer, and lifts it to her lips with reverence.

Her eyes flutter shut as she takes a long sip, a low groan slipping out that makes something in my chest tighten like a vice.

It’s not a safe sound. Not before breakfast.

"You’re welcome," I mutter, sliding the plate onto the table with a clatter that makes the dogs lift their heads in mild interest. I glance at her over my shoulder, catching the way her fingers are curled tightly around the coffee mug, like she's trying to will the warmth into her bones.

"Let's eat," I say, piling crispy bacon and golden hash browns onto both our plates. The cabin fills with the scent of sizzling eggs and fresh-brewed coffee, a smell that settles deep into your bones and tells you it’s okay to breathe again.

Whatever awkward tension lingered from sharing a bed last night gets chased out like cold air in front of a roaring fire.

Tessa hums at the sight of the bacon—like, full-on hums—as if it’s the holy grail of breakfast foods.

She doesn’t even try to hide it, just eyes the plate like it's rescued her from a famine.

My chest gives a little tug at the look on her face—pure gratitude, unfiltered and real.

Her expression can make a man want to keep doing nice things, even if it means burning through all the bacon in the house.

And we are absolutely not going to talk about how my lower regions are reacting. There’s polite, and then there’s suicidal. And commenting on her bacon moan? Definitely the latter.

We eat in comfortable silence, the type that only comes from two people not being morning people but recognizing the sacredness of bacon.

The dogs lounge at our feet, occasionally sniffing around for stray crumbs.

At one point, Toby lets out a dramatic sigh and flops onto his side like he’s survived a war.

Rocco, not to be outdone, attempts to balance a stray hash brown on his nose, fails, and snorts it directly into Tessa’s lap.

She jumps with a yelp, startled, then bursts out laughing, which sends Rocco into a tail-wagging frenzy of doggy pride.

After breakfast, I start to clean up, gathering plates and moving toward the sink, but she stops me with a hand on my arm.

"Nope," she says firmly. "You cooked, I clean. It's only fair."

Before I can argue, she’s already stacking dishes and moving toward the sink. The dogs trail behind her like tiny dish inspectors, sniffing everything with professional-level curiosity.

She opens the cabinet under the sink and starts rummaging. I arch a brow. "What are you looking for?"

"The dishwasher. Please tell me this cabin isn’t powered by hamster wheels."

I chuckle and shake my head. "No dishwasher. You’re lookin’ at the dishwasher."

She stares at me like I’ve told her we churn our own butter too. "You do them by hand? What century is it here on your mountain?"

"Somewhere between the Oregon Trail and basic plumbing. You'll survive. Maybe."

She grumbles something about Amish cults and rustic nightmares but starts washing dishes, anyway.

I watch for a second, lips twitching at the way she flicks soapy water at the dogs when they get too close.

Toby retaliates by sitting on her foot. Rocco steals a wet sponge and bolts into the living room like he’s won the lottery. Tessa sighs like she’s been betrayed.

"Your dogs are hooligans."