Page 17 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Gage

It doesn’t, of course. Just groans in that old timbered way, like the cabin itself is still waking up.

The dying fire casts long, flickering shadows across the walls, stretching and shrinking as if they’ve got their own agenda.

Outside, the wind whistles low and mean, and inside, it’s just me, the hush of early morning, and the warm echo of her breathing behind me.

There's just a slow crawl of shadows on the ceiling from the fire. I glance over and see Tessa curled up on her side, mouth slightly open, tangled in the sheets and fur. Rocco’s using her legs as a pillow again. Toby’s wedged between us like a living furnace.

I don’t move.

I should be used to sleeping alone. Hell, I used to prefer it—no interruptions, no accidental karate chops to the ribs, no blanket tug-of-wars at two a.m. But since Tessa landed in my life like a snowball to the face, I haven’t slept this well in years.

And the strangest part? I don’t even mind that she starfishes like it’s an Olympic sport. It’s kind of...nice.

Even with her next to me, warm and soft and tangled in blankets, I’m up at five a.m.—wired and restless, like there’s a mission briefing I missed and my body’s gearing up for something I can’t name. Old habits are hard to break.

I slide out of bed as quiet as a ninja, careful not to jostle the dogs or the woman currently hogging the blankets.

I snag a hoodie from the chair and shove my feet into boots without socks, wincing as the cold hits instantly.

The garage is just a short walk from the cabin, down past the generator shed and through the trees, but it might as well be an expedition across Antarctica right now.

The air bites at my face, so sharp it makes my eyes water, and each breath fogs out in front of me like I’m some kind of human steam engine. Snow crunches underfoot, deep and untouched, and I mutter a few creative curses about Alaska’s charm.

Still, I like this early morning hush. Usually. Today, not so much.

Because I know that as soon as this snow melts and the roads clear, she’s gone. Back to her life. Her world. One without snow-packed mountains or chainsaw sculptures or cabins with grumpy recluses and two oversized dogs.

I shake my head and trudge on, trying like hell not to think about it, but that's not going to work where she’s concerned.

Inside the garage, I hit the lights and take in the chaos. Tools. Sawdust. A half-finished bear statue meant for the summer raffle. Sandpaper, paintbrushes, a mug of coffee from three days ago that’s probably trying to evolve into something with opinions.

I could sand. I probably should sand. The festival’s coming up fast and I’ve got deadlines, orders, and donations to finish. But my hands feel twitchy. Not focused.So I grab a fresh block of cedar and clamp it down.Carving helps. Usually.

The repetition, the muscle memory, the sound of chisel against wood; it used to be all I needed to clear my head. Today, though? My hands move on autopilot, and my brain drifts.To her.

Tessa, with her relentless optimism and that ridiculous chainsaw stunt the other day.

Tessa, who talks too much, laughs too loud, and smells like vanilla and something I can’t name.

Tessa, who fell asleep next to me last night with her fingers curled in my hand like she didn’t want to let go.

It’s stupid, but I didn't want to let go, either.

We’ve barely known each other a few days. She’s not staying. She doesn’t belong in this life—she’s color and chaos and warmth, and I’m frozen here like part of the mountain. She needs to go home. It’s for the best. For both of us.

But damn it, I like her too much. She's not just in my sheets; she’s taken up permanent residence in my head, rearranging the furniture and repainting the walls.

I wake up thinking about her. And the worst part?

I don't want it to stop. I don’t know what to do with any of this, but the thought of her leaving feels like the coldest thing I’ve faced all winter.

The tool slides deeper into the wood. Shavings fall to the floor.

I don’t mean to carve her, but the shape forms anyway.

The curve of her cheek. The stubborn tilt of her chin.

The mouth that’s always smirking at me, even when she’s pretending not to.

I should stop, but I can’t. It’s like my hands already know what they want to make.

And then I hear her.

"So… is this where you bring all the women you accidentally kidnap in snowstorms and sculpt them?"

I nearly drop the chisel.She’s standing in the doorway of the garage, boots unlaced, hoodie two sizes too big. My hoodie, actually. Her hair’s a mess, her eyes still heavy with sleep, and she’s holding a mug of what I hope is coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

I clear my throat. "You’re up early."

She sips. "The bed got cold, and I couldn’t find you. I assumed you’d been eaten by a polar bear or buried under an avalanche, but then I saw the light out the window."

I glance at the carving. It’s not finished; it's barely more than an outline, but the shape is there. The slope of her nose, the curve of her lips. Unmistakably Tessa. Her eyes land on it, widen slightly, and stay there like they’re caught on something delicate and fragile.

Like she’s afraid to look away and break the moment.

"Is that supposed to be me?"

"Maybe." I shrug, trying to play it cool, even though my ears are turning red and my heart's pounding like I just ran a marathon through a blizzard.

Her voice is soft now. "It’s beautiful."

I shift on my feet. "It’s just wood... for now."

She steps closer. Looks at it like it means something more. Like, I mean something more. The silence stretches between us until it hums. When she looks up again, her expression’s unreadable.

"Why did you do that?"

"I don't know." My voice is low, almost swallowed by the hum of the garage. I brush off some sawdust, more to keep my hands busy than anything else, because the truth is sitting heavy in my chest. I don't have a suitable answer, just a feeling that won’t leave me alone.

"But you did."

Her gaze slides back to the carving, and this time she steps even closer, fingertips ghosting just above the cedar surface without actually making contact.

"I mean, look at this—my nose never even behaves in selfies, and you somehow made it look like it belongs on my face. That’s sorcery.

Or a criminally unfair level of talent. Probably both. "

She studies it with her head tilted, like she’s trying to memorize the way I see her through my hands. Then she smiles, soft and genuine. "You even got that tiny wrinkle I get when I’m pretending not to be mad. That’s either very flattering or slightly creepy. I haven’t decided yet."

"Yeah, I did." I shrug, trying to keep it casual, but the truth is, I’m stupidly fond of that tiny wrinkle. It shows up when she’s pretending to be annoyed, but I recognize it for what it is—Tessa trying not to smile. And damn if it doesn’t make my chest tighten every single time.

She waits another beat but then walks closer to me.

We’re toe to toe now. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off each other in waves, to see the freckle by her mouth and the way her lashes catch the light.

Her hand lifts as if she’s going to touch the carving, but then changes course and rests it on my chest instead.

Her fingers curl in the fabric of my hoodie.

My breath stalls. "Tessa—" I start, but my voice is hoarse, thick with everything I can't quite say.

She looks up at me, something raw and honest and a little scared shimmering in her eyes, like she wants to leap and is just waiting for me to say it's safe.

Her fingers tighten in my hoodie, pulling me just a little closer.

"Are you sure about this?" I ask, my voice low, almost reverent.

Her lips quirk, the faintest of smiles trembling at the corners. "I've been sure since you took my chainsaw away from me."

And just like that, the breath rushes out of me in a laugh, disbelieving and full of awe. She's fire and chaos and something I've never known I needed. The kind of sure that hits like a punch to the gut and settles deep, like she's always been meant to be here.

I reach down, brush a loose strand of hair from her cheek, and whisper, "Thank God."

Then, my mouth is on hers.

We stumble back into the cabin like we’re drunk on something we can’t name. The fire’s low, but the air is still freezing, and I don’t know who reaches for the blankets first—maybe both of us at once, clumsy and tangled and laughing through our teeth.

Our lips crash again, and this time there's no mistaking what we both want.

The tension that's been simmering between us boils over all at once—urgent, breathless, undeniable.

I pull her tighter, our bodies pressed together under the flannel sheets, and she wraps her legs around my waist like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Her mouth is hot against mine, tasting like coffee and adrenaline. She’s laughing and gasping between kisses, her hands tangled in my hair, then slipping down to my shoulders, my back, tugging at my shirt.

"Cold room, warm bed," she mutters, voice husky, before rolling me onto my back with a playful growl. I stare up at her, stunned, breathless, completely hers. Her hair spills around her shoulders like a halo made of fire.

She leans down, brushing her nose against mine. "I swear if you tell me we need to slow down, I’m going to scream."

"Wasn’t planning to," I rasp.