Page 13 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Gage

C heckers. Of all the things I thought I’d be doing in the middle of a snowstorm with a woman who tried to chainsaw a tree in half out of spite, playing paper checkers wasn’t on the bingo card.

And yet, here we are. Tessa’s cross-legged on the floor, tongue poking out as she calculates her next move like she’s a football coach planning a full-scale scrimmage game.

The dogs are practically referees at this point.

I don’t mind it. More than that, I kind of like it.

She beats me again, arms flung up in victory. Her smile is all teeth and mischief. "Face it, Gage. I’m a paper checkers prodigy. You never stood a chance."

"Remind me to confiscate all cereal boxes moving forward." I mutter as I gather the shredded remains of the Lucky Charms box and the sad Sharpie nubs she used for the checkerboard. I brush the paper pieces into a bowl like I’m clearing poker chips, then wipe down the coffee table with one of the old dishrags from the kitchen. It’s not much, but something about tidying up calms my twitchy nerves—and distracts me from the fact that her smile still hasn’t stopped messing with my head.

She grins like I just complimented her. It makes something in my chest twitch, which is deeply inconvenient, so I grunt and finish packing up the game.

Then I hear it—the familiar growl of a snowmobile engine clawing its way up the trail.

Not dread exactly, more like resigned bracing.

Only one person I know drives like that.

Trace Caldwell. My old Army buddy, self-appointed pain in the ass, and the human equivalent of a golden retriever hopped up on espresso.

Sure enough, seconds later, there he is. Helmet off, smirk on, swaggering up my porch like he owns it. He bangs on the door as if he’s auditioning for the role of the Most Annoying Human Alive... and nailing it.

Tessa raises a brow. "Friend of yours?"

"Unfortunately." I open the door, and in he walks in all his glory. Trace Caldwell. Tall, cocky, born to cause trouble.

"The storm rolled in fast. Figured I’d come check on you. Or dig you out if your grumpy ass got buried alive—though I’m betting you’d just come back as a snow zombie and grunt your way through it like usual."

His gaze slides past me and lands on Tessa, and I swear the smirk triples in wattage.

"Well, hello there."

"Trace, Tessa. Tessa, Trace," I mutter, already regretting everything.

Tessa stands up, chin tilted, with that damn smile still on her face. "Nice to meet you, Trace." She shoots me a glance, as if testing the waters, then steps forward and shakes his hand like a diplomat trying to keep things polite before someone starts a war.

Trace looks from her to me and back again, eyebrow arched like he’s mentally filing this away for later ammo. He gives her a conspiratorial smile—one I’ve seen too many damn times in too many damn bars when we were stationed overseas.

He offers his hand as if he’s Prince Charming. "Pleasure’s all mine. I’d say Gage finally upgraded his social circle."

"Don’t you have something to be doing? Anywhere else to be?" I growl, already ushering him back toward the door.

Trace holds his hands up in mock surrender, the grin never leaving his face. "Whoa there, easy, big guy. I come in peace. Thought I’d offer my services, make sure you’re not dead under a pile of snow or something."

He looks back at Tessa. "Is that your white car off Johnson Road?"

Tessa nods her head. "Yeah. My rental. Is it still there? No one's stolen it, right?"

"It was still there as of last night when I drove home." Trace turns towards me. "Say, Gage—why don’t we hop on the snowmobile and go grab her stuff? Bet she’s missing her phone."

She perks up. "Yes! Please. I had a laptop, phone, chargers, my suitcase?—"

Trace winks at her, all mock gallantry. "Don’t worry, little lady. If your phone’s out there clinging to a snowbank for dear life, I’ll rescue it like a knight in frostbitten armor."

I shove my coat on before he can flirt more and grab the snowmobile keys. "We’ll be back," I say, tossing a look at Tessa that I hope lands somewhere between serious and not-you're-on-your-own. "Stay put. I’m leaving Rocco and Toby in charge. They take their guard duties seriously."

Getting to her car takes longer than expected.

The snow’s not just deep—it’s an unholy mess of drifts piled so high they swallow the landscape.

Trees lean with the weight of it, the trail might as well be a ghost, and Trace and I are left plowing through the last hundred yards like clumsy penguins on a mission.

When we finally spot what might be the car, it's only because a sunroof glints through a break in the snow wall.

"That it?" Trace asks, squinting.

"I think so," I mutter, pressing the key fob until the parking lights flash through the curtain of snow. A faint, blinking glow pierces the white. I glance sideways at Trace. "Looks like it."

We wade closer, and sure enough, her rental is entombed in snow, buried up to the windows with nothing but the tip of the antenna and one side mirror peeking out like survivors.

It takes a beat just to process how much digging this would've taken without the equipment on the sleds.

We exchange a look—half impressed, half exasperated—before getting to work digging it out far enough to reach the trunk and one door.

I glance over at Trace as we finish scraping the last of the snow away from Tessa’s car door. "Have you caught the weather lately?"

He nods, brushing snow off his gloves. "Yeah. Radio said yesterday’s storm was the last hurrah until fall. Warm front’s moving in—should melt things off in a few days."

I grunt, staring out at the whitewashed landscape. It should feel like good news. A break in the weather means no more digging out cars like buried treasure and no more trudging through chest-high snowdrifts. But it also means Tessa will be able to leave.

And for some reason, that sits in my gut like a lead weight.

"You know she’s cute, right?" Trace says, yanking open the trunk.

I shoot him a warning glare. "Don’t."

"What? I can’t say she’s smart, funny, and way too adorable for someone who voluntarily spends time with your growly mountain man routine? Because honestly, if you’re not interested, I might just hang around a little longer and see what makes her tick."

"I'm not interested," I say, grabbing the last of her bags out of the car. My tone is clipped, but my blood's simmering at the thought of Trace hanging around Tessa any longer than necessary. "And don’t get comfortable—this isn’t a social visit. You’re not staying.

" I shoot him a hard look, silently daring him to test me on this.

"Sure you're not, and I don’t inhale lukewarm coffee straight from the pot like a caffeine-deprived raccoon who’s given up on life."

I glare at him, and he chuckles, entirely too pleased with himself. I grip the last of her bags and toss it onto the sled with a little more force than necessary. Who needs this much luggage? How long was she planning on staying up here?

Trace whistles low under his breath, shooting me a smug look like he just won a damn trophy.

I glare harder, willing him to combust on the spot, but the bastard only grins wider.

The fact that he knows he’s gotten under my skin?

He’s basking in it like a lizard in the sun, enjoying every damn second while I try not to punch him in the face.

We work in silence after that, loading everything up with practiced efficiency, but my jaw’s tight the whole time. The wind cuts across the trail, and I can’t tell if the sting in my chest is from the cold or from the thought of Trace eyeing Tessa like she’s fair game.

Either way, I’m ready to get back before I say something I can’t take back.

Trace and I finally make it back to the cabin, snow still clinging to our jackets and the sled weighed down with her bags.

As we round the corner to the porch, the cabin door flings open and Tessa practically bursts through it, her feet in wool socks, eyes wide and gleaming like a kid on Christmas morning.

Tessa lets out a relieved gasp and snatches up her phone like it’s a lifeline.

From where I’m standing, I can see the way her shoulders sag as she cradles it in both hands and starts swiping like she’s in some kind of thumb-driven triathlon.

No signal, of course, but the look on her face says it doesn’t even matter.

Just seeing her lock screen—some grinning mutt with floppy ears—seems to ground her.

She scrolls through a few screens like she’s checking to make sure the world still exists, even if she can’t quite reach it yet.

And damn if it doesn’t tug at something in my chest to watch her clutch that little rectangle like it’s hope in digital form.

"I was hours away from training a red squirrel to carry acorn-shaped messages into town like some woodland carrier pigeon." She laughs.

I drop her bags just inside the door and toe off my snow-caked boots. "Trace was the squirrel," I say, shooting her a wry glance.

Rocco lets out a sharp bark like he's offended on behalf of the squirrel community, and Toby pads over to sniff one of the duffel bags, tail wagging like it’s all for him. I reach down and ruffle their ears. "You two were good boys. She's still alive."

Tessa grins from the doorway, arms crossed as she watches the exchange. "You seriously left your dogs in charge of me?"

"They're highly trained in guard duty," I say, giving Rocco and Toby a meaningful look. "Rocco’s head of security, Toby’s his muscle. I told them that there’s no flirting allowed on the premises." I glance at Trace as I say it, just to be crystal clear who the warning’s for.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly catching the subtext. But instead of firing back, she snorts a laugh and bends to grab her bag—immediately getting ambushed by Toby’s tongue.