Page 7 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

“I’m gonna need you to define dancing, ” I say, glancing over my shoulder. “Because if I tried this, I’d end up missing at least two limbs and crying over firewood.”

“Thanks,” he says with a small grin. “You always compliment someone right before accusing them of being a serial killer?”

“I mean... better safe than sorry? You could be one of those charming, flannel-wrapped serial killers they make documentaries about. The handsome ones that trick you with chainsaw art and decent coffee before turning you into a macrame throw pillow.”

He laughs—deep, rumbly, and unexpected—and somehow that makes me feel safer than I probably should. Not mocking, not smug. Just amused. Like he finds me—and maybe this whole situation—genuinely funny. And weirdly? That makes me want to keep talking, just to see if I can make it happen again.

“You’re in excellent hands,” he says, giving me a look that’s equal parts warm and unreadable—like he’s seen too much, survived worse, and still somehow believes I’ll be okay here.

There’s something in his eyes—just for a second—that flickers and fades like a campfire ember in the snow.

Not sadness, exactly. Just... weight. A heaviness that makes me want to ask questions I probably shouldn’t.

Something about the way he carries himself—like he's always braced for the next blow, even in the quiet. Like he’s used to being the last one standing.

It’s not cocky. It’s quiet, steady confidence.

It makes you want to believe him, even when logic says not to. And God help me, I do.

A shiver runs down my spine, this one not from nerves but from the sudden gust of wind and the fat, lazy snowflakes beginning to fall harder around the covered deck.

They stick to my borrowed flannel and the tips of my lashes; the air grows colder by the second.

My teeth chatter slightly, and I curse my lack of layers and any common sense that led me out here in the first place.

“Come on,” he says, stepping forward. “Let’s get you back inside before you turn blue.”

He picks me up like it’s nothing, like I'm not half-frozen, half-horrified, and wholly humiliated.

He steps onto the porch, snow clinging to my eyelashes and the ends of his beard.

He sets the chainsaw down on the deck with a heavy thunk that echoes into the quiet, snow-drenched woods.

Then, without breaking stride, he nudges the door open with a boot and carries me straight to the couch.

"You're not wearing a coat. Why aren't you shivering?" I ask, squinting at him like he’s some kind of frost-proof mountain mutant.

He shrugs, completely unfazed by the snow sticking to his beard. "Because my blood’s thicker than a Florida city slicker’s. Cold rolls off me like water off a duck."

I blink up at him. "You’re weirdly proud of that."

"Damn right," he says with a slow, amused grin. "Takes a special kind of crazy to live here year-round."

Gently, he lowers me down, adjusting the throw pillows like he’s done this before—like he’s a regular host and not a reclusive mountain man with suspiciously perfect hospitality skills.

He tosses the blanket over me, tucking it in just enough to feel absurdly comforting, and lifts my foot carefully back onto the pillows.

“I’m bored,” I declare with a dramatic huff, flopping back against the couch like a starlet in a 1940s film. “What does one do around here for entertainment besides narrowly avoid frostbite?”

Gage pauses in the doorway, brushing snow from his flannel sleeve. “Want to watch a movie?”

I blink at him, hand to my chest in mock shock. “A real movie? With, like, actors and a plot and no interpretive dance from the raccoons out back?”

He arches a brow. “No, I meant the imaginary kind we act out with sock puppets.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’ve done some quality sock puppet work in my day.”

He snorts, then nods toward the far wall. “There’s a TV. And a DVD player. Not a streaming setup—satellite’s spotty up here. But I’ve got a decent collection.”

“Oh, my God. You have movies ? And here I thought you just whittled chess pieces and glared into the fire for fun.”

He leans his shoulder against the wall, one brow lifted, that smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s already bracing for my answer. "Alright, then. What’s your poison? War film? Action? One of those movies where everyone dies, but it’s art so you pretend you liked it, anyway?"

I wrinkle my nose and stick out my tongue like he just offered me a plate of liver and onions. “Ew. No. None of that war-and-doom nonsense. Anything rom-com-ish.”

He snorts. “Define rom-com.”

“People fall in love. There’s a quirky best friend who owns a bookstore. Someone runs through an airport. Maybe some dramatic rain. You know, emotional support precipitation.”

He grins. “I’ve got Die Hard. There’s definitely falling happening. As for rain… there’s a rain of bullets.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re impossible.”

"Never claimed I wasn't."

“Fine,” I say, pointing at him like I’m issuing a legally binding ultimatum. “But if you pick something where the dog dies, I’m suing.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “No dogs die. Scout’s honor.”

“You weren’t a Boy Scout, were you?”

“No, but I was a Ranger. That has to count for something.”

“Only if you come with popcorn. Real popcorn. Not, like, air-popped sadness in a bowl.”

He walks toward the kitchen, laughing under his breath. “Demanding. Injured. Possibly feral. Yeah, this’ll be fun.”