Page 11 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

"Nah," I say. "They just know good entertainment when they see it."I head to the front door, yank it open—and stop dead. I knew it was snowing pretty hard, especially for such a late winter storm, but I didn't expect this level of snow.

Tessa peeks over my shoulder. "Holy shit."

A wall of snow greets us. Not a drift. A wall.

At least five feet high, maybe more. It's like Mother Nature got drunk, lost a bet, and dumped half the damn mountain on my porch for fun. It’s packed tight, dense as concrete, with frozen ridges stacked like the world’s worst layer cake.

I stare at it, blink once, then mutter a prayer for the shovel I'm about to sacrifice to the winter gods.

"Well," I say, rubbing the back of my neck. "Guess we’re not going anywhere today."

Tessa blinks. "You weren’t kidding about the snow. I thought maybe you were just being dramatic."

"I’m many things, sweetheart. Dramatic isn’t one of them."

She turns, arms crossed and brow furrowed, clearly baffled.

"So how exactly am I going to get back to my car?

" Her voice pitches with a note of exasperation, like she’s just realized she might be starring in her own personal snowbound horror movie.

"I could drive to town from there," she adds, but there’s less confidence in the statement now, like she knows it’s a long shot and hates admitting it.

I jerk my thumb toward the door with a raised brow. "You got snow tires or a sled? Because unless your car is also an arctic plow in disguise, we’re not going anywhere until the abominable snowdrift outside decides to melt—or grow a staircase."

Her nose wrinkles. "Okay, point taken. What’s the plan then? Build a tunnel? Ride out on a herd of moose?"

I close the door to keep out the cold and head to the closet, tugging it open with a groan as the cold air nips at my skin. "Nah," I say, grabbing my only pair of snowshoes from the bottom shelf, holding them up like some kind of winter survival badge. "I’ve got snowshoes."

She squints at them. "Those are snowshoes? Seriously? They look like something you'd find at a garage sale next to a box of cassette tapes and a lava lamp." She leans in, incredulous. "Wait a second—are those actual tennis rackets? Are you about to play doubles with a moose or something?"

"They're old school," I say, slipping one under my arm. "But effective. Kept me from sinking waist-deep in snow more than once."

She folds her arms, clearly not convinced. "So, basically tennis rackets for your feet."

"Only if you're playing Wimbledon in Narnia." I laugh at my own joke, but she doesn't seem amused; more nervous.

"Don't worry. I'm going to go get my snow shovel from the garage and see if I can at least make a path out of here if we need one and try to get my snowmobile out of there." I smirk. "Stay inside."

"Wait—you have a snowmobile? And you didn’t use that yesterday to get me back to my car?" She asks incredulously.

"Didn’t need to. It wasn’t this bad yet—and you’ve got a busted toe and zero business driving in this weather.

I’m not about to let you play stuntwoman on an ice-covered back-road while hobbling around like a baby deer.

Someone's gotta make sure you don’t end up in a snowbank, and I guess that someone’s me. "

She watches me pull on boots and layers, clearly skeptical. "You sure you don’t want me to help?"

I shoot her a look, more protective than scolding. "You can barely walk. Sit on the couch, put your foot up, and read a book or something. Let me handle this."

She huffs. "Fine. But I’m keeping score."

"Tell you what," I say, pulling open the door again and grabbing the snowshoes from the floor, "you stay put and recover. In exchange, you help me sand some projects in the shop until it's safe for me to get you down the mountain. Deal?"

She eyes me, clearly not ready to commit but too curious to walk away. "What kind of projects? And is there a waiver I need to sign in case I accidentally sand off a finger?" She points to her toe. "We both know what happened the last time I used a tool."

"Chainsaw sculptures. Handmade furniture.

The usual touristy stuff people buy on vacation," I say, brushing off her self-deprecating tone but not missing it. She’s joking, but there's an edge beneath it.

I make a mental note to keep an eye on her—this kind of humor often hides bruises that run deeper than a busted toe.

Her expression shifts slowly from suspicious to intrigued. "Sanding, huh? Fine. But I want hazard pay if I get splinters."

I grin and shoot her a wink. "Deal. I'll be back. Stay put. Couch. Book. Coffee. No power tools."

She rolls her eyes but sinks onto the couch with exaggerated reluctance, clutching her mug like it’s a lifeline. Rocco and Toby flank her immediately, one on each side like hairy bodyguards.

I point at them sternly. "You two—no chewing, no barking, and for the love of all that is holy, no licking anything weird."

Rocco lets out a little whine, and Toby just thumps his tail.

"That’s what I thought," I mutter, grabbing my coat and stepping into the snow. My breath puffs out in a cloud, and I brace myself for the cold. Sweet chaos wrapped in flannel and coffee is on that couch. And I’m out here wondering how I got so deep in this blizzard—figuratively and literally.

I step out into the snow, tennis racket feet and all, and wonder what the hell I’ve just gotten myself into.