Page 26 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Tessa

I t’s been exactly sixteen days, fourteen hours, and—I glance at the microwave clock—twenty-two minutes since I left Alaska, not that I’m keeping track or anything.

Yesterday, I even tried to go back to work, sitting at my desk pretending invoices and emails could fill the hole in my chest. They didn’t.

The fluorescent lights buzzed, my boss droned on about deadlines, and I stared at my screen thinking about the quiet of Gage’s cabin, the warmth of his fire, the dogs at my feet.

Florida life suddenly feels like cardboard compared to Alaska’s technicolor.

And when I came home, the silence of my apartment was so loud it made me cry into leftover takeout.

Now, I sit at my tiny kitchen table, still wearing the hoodie I stole from Gage, accidentally on purpose, staring into a mug of coffee that went cold hours ago.

Outside my apartment window, Florida is doing its best impression of cheerful: sunshine, palm trees, an enthusiastic squirrel throwing acorns at God knows what.

Inside? I’m a puddle of bleh wrapped in his hoodie with the air conditioner turned down to sixty-five degrees so I can wear said hoodie in the summer.

My apartment, which I used to think was adorable, now feels claustrophobic.

Everything’s beige and bland and too small.

My bed isn’t half as comfortable as Gage’s.

My coffee doesn’t taste as good. The air smells like lawn clippings instead of pine and snow.

And I haven’t stopped crying during every dog food commercial that plays on TV.

Why are those dogs always so loyal? So hopeful?

I’m going to lose it if I see another golden retriever.

My phone buzzes. Patrice. Again.

I ignore it. Again.

Then it buzzes again.

Then again.

Finally, with a groan, I swipe to answer, attempting my best impression of normal. I push some fake pep into my voice like I’m not curled up in Gage’s hoodie, surrounded by tissues and regret. "Hey!" I say a little too chipper, a little too high-pitched.

There’s a beat of silence. Then Patrice goes, "You sound like someone just ran over your cat with a Zamboni," she says. "What’s going on?"

"Nothing. I’m fine. Just tired."

"Uh huh. And I just won a Nobel Prize for my contributions to TikTok dance theory. Try again."

I don’t respond. Patrice sighs on the other end.

"Okay. Enough. I gave you almost a full two weeks to mope and wallow and Netflix yourself into a stupor, but I’m done playing nice.

Spill it. You flew to Alaska, met a sexy bearded mountain man, apparently fell in love, and then what?

You ran away as if he were a bear and you forgot your bear spray? "

"It wasn’t like that," I say, trying for breezy and failing miserably. My voice cracks, my tone wobbles, and even I don't believe the lie as it leaves my mouth. But clearly, it was like that.

"Oh really? Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds exactly like that.

Did he tell you to leave? Toss your suitcase into a snowbank and say ‘good riddance’?

Or maybe he pulled a James Bond and launched you off the back of the snowmobile with an ejector seat?

And seriously—what ever happened to Kyle, that flaming dumpster fire of a human being? "

I rub my temples. "No. He drove me to the plane. Gave me a ride on his snowmobile. I said goodbye."

"Did he kiss you goodbye, or did you kiss him?"

"I kissed him. On the cheek." I confess.

"Ugh, the kiss of polite doom," she mutters, rolling her eyes so hard I can practically hear it through the phone. "I swear to dog, sometimes you make a box of rocks look reasonable, Tess."

"He didn’t stop me. He didn’t ask me to stay." I tell her. "Wait, did you say 'swear to dog'?"

"Yes, I'm working on cleaning up my language—and you, my dear disaster, didn’t exactly give the man a reason to stop you." Her words land like a slap wrapped in concern—sharp, but maybe not entirely wrong. I freeze.

"Excuse me?"

"Tessa. Come on. You think the guy’s going to drop to his knees and beg you to stay when you’ve made it clear your heart’s already on the next flight out? What did you expect him to do—offer to move to Florida and become a lifeguard?"

"My life is here!" I snap, louder than I mean to. "My mom is here. My best friend—you—are here. My job, my apartment, my bills, my dentist?—"

"Tessa, stop."

"—my whole routine. My favorite coffee shop. My mail!"

She waits until I finish my rant. "Are you hearing yourself right now? You sound like someone who’s describing a very cozy prison."

I open my mouth to argue but... okay, she might have a point.

Patrice keeps going. "They don’t have airplanes in Alaska?

What, you think I can’t visit? That your mom can’t come see you?

You think FaceTime stops working above sea level?

Damn it. You hate your job, your apartment is the size of a toaster, and you’ve been talking about running away to start over since, like, 2019.

And you finally found a place that made you feel something again.

Someone who made you feel something again. So why the hell did you come home?"

I stare at the wall looking for a better answer, but there isn't one. "I was scared," I whisper.

Silence.

Then, softly, Patrice says, "I know. But you’re braver than you think.

You flew across the country to surprise your boyfriend in Alaska, got your heart stomped on like a roach at a summer BBQ, and instead of curling into a ball and bingeing sad movies, you went full lumberjack on a metaphor in the middle of a forest you barely remembered. That’s not cowardly; that’s badass."

I let out a broken laugh. "That wasn’t badass. That was caffeine and spite."

"Same difference."

I sniffle, pressing the sleeve of Gage’s hoodie to my face. "What if he hates me now? What if he thinks I’m some flighty idiot who just used him for flannel cuddles and ran the second things got too real?" I pause, "What if he breaks my heart like Kyle did?"

"Okay," she says, her voice slowing as if she's carefully unwrapping the words. "What if—and just go with me for a second here—he actually loves you, like really loves you, the same way you clearly love him?"

The words hit like a snowball to the chest. I blink. "I don’t?—"

"Don’t you dare say you don’t love him. I will literally come over there and smack you."

"But it was so fast."

"So what?" She replies.

"And messy." I add.

"Welcome to life, Tess." I stare out the window again. The squirrel is now eating what appears to be a half-crushed Cheetos with a commitment I can only aspire to. He’s perched on the railing like a tiny, judgmental goblin, and for some reason, I feel personally attacked. It’s a weirdly fitting metaphor—me, clinging to crumbs of a decision that made sense at the time but now just tastes like regret and artificial cheese dust.

"The chainsaw didn’t fix it," I murmur.

"Fix what?"

"The pain. The betrayal. Everything I thought I needed to get out of my system. That tree was just a tree. I thought cutting it down would be like cutting out the heartbreak. But it wouldn't have worked. Because I wasn’t healing. I was just distracting myself."

"And Gage? What about him?" I exhale.

"He was the only thing that ever made it quiet inside. I felt... peace. Not like the spa kind. Like the kind where your heart doesn’t feel like it’s sprinting all the time."

There’s a pause. Then she pipes up, "Then what the hell are you doing sitting in Florida when the love of your life is probably up there carving more wildlife creatures. and listening to sad country songs?"

"Do you think he misses me?"

"If he doesn’t, I swear I’ll fly up there, take a chainsaw to his favorite tree, and then kick his flannel-covered behind into next week."

I laugh, watery and real.

"So," Patrice says, all business now. "What’s the plan, Tess?"

"There is no plan, Patrice."

"Wrong. You do have a plan. And I’m not letting you mope in that hoodie one second longer.

You’re going to get off your butt, pack a damn bag, book the next flight to Alaska, and go get your mountain man like this is the season finale of a rom-com and you're the main character who finally realizes she’s in love. Capisce?"

"What if he doesn’t want me back?" I murmur.

Her tone turns fierce, eyes blazing even through the phone. "Then at least you’ll know you tried. But I’d bet every bra I own—and you know how many that is—that he’s up there wishing to hell he’d opened his mouth before you left."

I pause. "You think he still wants me?"

"I think you still want him. And you won’t be able to move forward until you find out if the feelings are mutual."

I hesitate, my hand hovering above the laptop as if it's going to bite me. My brain screams a thousand reasons why this is a bad idea, why I should just crawl back into bed and pretend none of this ever happened. But then I think about Gage—his quiet strength, the way he looked at me like I mattered, like I belonged. And I realize I can’t just sit here and wonder.

I stand up, my chair scraping loudly against the tile, my pulse thudding in my ears. "Screw it," I mutter. Then louder, stronger, "I need to book a flight."

Patrice cheers. "YES. Go get your mountain man, baby."

I laugh. "You’re ridiculous."

"You love me and you know it."

"Unfortunately, that's true."

"Keep me updated. And don’t forget to bring condoms."

"Goodbye, Patrice." I hang up, heart thudding wildly in my chest as I grab my laptop. I have no idea what I’ll say when I get there. But I do know this... I’m done running. Done being scared. And if there’s even a chance Gage might feel what I feel, then I owe it to both of us to find out.

Because love doesn’t come around every day. And when it does—when it looks like a grumpy mountain man with kind eyes and chainsaw-carved furniture and dogs that fall in love with you instantly—you don’t walk away.

You fight.

And this time, I’m going to fight.