Page 21 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Gage

T here are few things in life more dangerous than small-town gossip, especially when it’s aimed at me. And especially when it involves a woman staying in my cabin. Alone. In my bed. Even if I tried sleeping on the couch like some kind of noble idiot.

"How's the houseguest, Gage?" Mike calls from the loading dock of the outfitter store as I strap down a box of fire starter to the sled on my snowmobile.

I grunt. "She talks too much."

"Must be serious then," he teases, whistling low. "You let a woman crash in your cabin? Figured hell would freeze over first."

"It did freeze. That’s why she’s there."

He laughs like he knows I’m full of shit.

Because I am. I could’ve dropped her off at the lodge.

I didn’t. I could’ve kept things distant.

I didn’t. And now here I am pretending to be annoyed when the truth is—I catch myself looking forward to her voice echoing off my walls like sunshine bouncing around inside a cave.

It’s infuriating. And kind of addictive.

I yank my gloves tighter and nod toward the store. "Any word on when the airport might reopen?"

Mike scratches his beard. "Storm did a number on the runway. Should be fixed in about a week if the plows hold up and nobody crashes their bush plane into the fuel tanks again."

I blink. "Again?"

He shrugs. "Tourist. Wanted a TikTok video to go viral."

Jesus. I shake my head, but something loosens in my chest. A week. That’s seven more days of Tessa in my cabin, her laughter filling the quiet, her foot propped on a pillow, her hair always wet from the shower and her scent clinging to my flannel.

I tell myself that I hate it. That I miss the silence. But that’s a damn lie.

Instead, I plan. A snowshoe trail to the overlook.

S’mores over a campfire. Another movie night without burning the popcorn this time.

That batch of moose chili I haven’t made in ages.

Maybe even that puzzle she eyed online yesterday, the one with the dogs in hats.

She called it "stupid adorable." I didn’t tell her I went ahead and bought it.

Mike nudges me with his elbow as he grabs another crate. "A bunch of us are heading up Bear Haven Summit next month. Two-day climb, campfire, questionable chili, and a whole lotta chest-beating. You in?"

"Sounds good. Count me in," I say, even though the words feel hollow. Because the truth is, when I picture next month, I don’t see myself scaling a mountain or beating my chest with a bunch of guys. I see an empty cabin. A quiet I used to crave that now feels unbearable. I see the coffee pot without her mug beside it. The couch without her legs tossed over the armrest. My bed—still made. And it hits me like a sucker punch to the chest. She’ll be gone.

And I’ll be here. And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with that.

I finish loading the supplies, hop on the snowmobile, and swing by the café to grab two hot drinks—one black, one foamy with something called maple-vanilla happiness.

It must be Tessa’s favorite because it sounds just like her.

I head back to the snowmobile and spot her just ahead—surrounded by a few townsfolk and holding. ..Is that a raccoon?

"You’ve got to be kidding me," I mutter.

She cradles the damn thing like it’s a baby wrapped in a blanket, beaming like she’s just saved the Alaskan woodland kingdom from certain doom.

"Why do you have a raccoon? I leave you alone for twenty minutes," I call out as I walk toward her, “and you join a Disney movie.”

She grins at me. "I saved it."

"Of course you did."

After she hands the raccoon off to the wildlife officer—who gives me a look like ‘ please tell me you have control over this woman ’ and we head back to the sled.

Out of the blue, she blurts, "I saw Kyle today."

I should’ve expected that one. Ashwood Falls is like a high school reunion on repeat—everywhere you turn, there's someone who knows your entire life story and has an opinion about it. My fists clench tighter. I hate she faced him alone. That I wasn’t there.

I swallow hard; the words sticking like splinters in my throat.

"Yeah?" It’s all I manage, rough and low. Because what if he got to her? What if seeing him reopened something and this thing between us—this wildfire I didn’t see coming—is over before it ever really began? ?

She smiles at me. "He tried to pull the same smug crap. Said I looked rough around the edges. So, I told him I might not be Botoxed into oblivion, but at least I wasn't still clinging to a disappearing hairline."

Ouch. That one had to sting. The hairline is sacred territory, and she carpet-bombed it without mercy.

I let out a low whistle, half wince, half admiration.

"You didn’t go there. Not the hairline." I reach up, patting my forehead just to be sure—yep, still intact.

Right where I left it this morning, thank you very much.

"I did. And then I walked away. Latte in hand. Didn't even look back."

Pride blooms in my chest so fast it nearly knocks the wind out of me.

"Damn, Tessa. That's my girl," I murmur, voice thick with something too big to name.

Without even thinking, I tug her into my arms and kiss her—right there in the middle of Main Street, in front of the entire town—because hell if I can stop myself.

Let them all talk. Let them whisper. I just want this moment with her.

She climbs onto the snowmobile behind me, arms wrapping around my waist like she belongs there.

Her cheek presses lightly against my back, and I can feel her smile through the layers of my coat.

Her breath tickles the back of my neck, warm and intimate, sending a jolt down my spine.

When we hit a bump, her laughter bursts out—light and free—and I swear it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.

I ease the throttle just enough to stretch out the ride, deliberately hitting another dip just to hear that laugh again.

She squeezes me tighter, and suddenly, the long way home doesn’t feel long enough.

I gun the engine just a little when I see the trail dip ahead. The sled lifts, just enough for a squeal to escape her lips and her grip to tighten around me.

“Gage!” she yells, but she’s laughing.

“Oops. Sorry. I didn’t see the bump,” I lie right through my teeth.

“You so did. Do it again!”

So I do. Twice.

By the time we roll up to the cabin, the sun’s beginning to dip below the tree line, casting everything in that golden light that makes the snow look like glitter.

I kill the engine, climb off, and start unloading the gear.

Tessa swings her leg over and hops down, her cheeks flushed, her smile wide, and before I can say a word?—

Whap!

Something cold and wet smacks me in the back of the head.

I turn slowly, dusting snow off the back of my head, and there she is—standing like a smug little snow gremlin, mitten’d hands covering her mouth as she tries to muffle her laughter.

Her eyes are lit up like the northern lights, dancing with glee, and that damn grin breaks free, anyway.

She’s absolutely delighted with herself, and I’m torn between tackling her into the nearest snowbank or kissing that smile right off her face.

“You did not just?—”

Another snowball hits my chest.

That’s it.

I drop the bags and charge. She shrieks and takes off toward the back of the cabin, slipping once in the snow and screaming with laughter the whole way.

“You can’t outrun me, Tessa! I'm a former Army Ranger, and you have a broken toe.”

I lunge forward and nearly snag her arm, but she squeals, twisting with a burst of laughter that slips through the trees, and spins just out of reach, her boot kicking up a spray of powder as she escapes again.

I round the corner and catch her just as she tries to duck behind a tree. I wrap an arm around her waist and haul her against me, spinning us both until we fall into a snowdrift. She lands on top of me, both of us breathless, her nose red, her hair loose and tangled. She's beautiful.

She grins down at me. “Truce?”

“Never.”

I flip us, pinning her beneath me gently, brushing a snowflake off her cheek. Her breath catches. My chest rises and falls against hers. For a long second, all I hear is the wind, the forest, and the rapid beat of her heart.

“I really like you,” she whispers.

I nod. “Me too.”

We don’t kiss. Not this time. I want to—God, do I want to—but the moment stretches, breathless and electric, and I let it settle between us like snow on a branch.

Instead, I take her hand, help her up, and gently brush the snow from her back, my fingers lingering a second too long. She grins, smug and unrepentant, still chuckling about her sneak attack.

As I scoop up the bags and head toward the cabin, she trails behind, muttering something about 'justified vengeance' and 'next time, aim higher,' and I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. My chest feels lighter. Warmer. Like maybe the fire’s already been lit—and it’s not the one in the fireplace.

Inside, we peel off wet layers, and I hand her a blanket before tossing a few logs on the fire to warm us up. She settles into the couch with her raccoon plushie from earlier and that ridiculous maple-vanilla drink.

I can't help myself, and I cross the room, pull her gently to her feet, and kiss her deeply. No teasing. No games. Just a solid, grounding, honest kiss that says everything I’m not quite ready to say aloud.

When we break apart, she presses her forehead to mine. “I’m glad I met you.”

Me too.But I don’t say it. Not yet.Instead, I squeeze her hand, kiss her again, and silently pray for one more storm.