Page 9 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)
Tessa
I wake up to darkness and bone-deep disorientation that makes me wonder if I’ve been kidnapped by lumberjacks or a biker gang. My foot throbs in time with my heartbeat, my mouth’s dry, and for a moment I can’t remember why my pillow smells like wood, smoke, and cedar instead of lavender detergent.
Blinking, I push up on my elbows and squint into the shadows. Not my room. Not my bed. Not my anything. I’m surrounded by quilted warmth, rough-hewn log walls, and the faint flicker of a dying fire glow coming from somewhere beyond the cracked open door.
My pulse kicks up—because if I’m not at the lodge anymore and I’m not at home…
where exactly am I? My mind races through every possible, highly dramatic scenario, from waking up in an ice fishing shack to being spirited away by a roving band of moose whisperers.
Kidnapped by lumberjacks? Enrolled in a survivalist commune?
Forced to churn my own butter while wearing plaid?
None of it makes sense, and for a few heartbeats I’m convinced I’ve stepped straight into some alternate-universe episode of my own life.
Then it comes back in a slow, cringe-worthy montage, each image more humiliating than the last. The ridiculous revenge tree stunt.
Me, wielding a chainsaw like a clueless action-hero wannabe.
The cheating ex-fiancé I’d like to erase from my personal history.
The blizzard. And finally, the pièce de résistance: a mountain man, with arms the size of my emotional baggage, scooping me up and carrying me into his cabin like I weighed nothing at all.
If my cheeks get any hotter at the memory, I’ll melt straight through the mattress. Oh God.
The panic eases, but the loneliness hits harder than I expect.
It’s so quiet here. No hum of traffic, no occasional upstairs neighbor dropping something that sounds suspiciously like a bowling ball.
Just the whisper of wind against the cabin and the dull ache in my foot reminding me that painkillers would’ve been a genius move earlier.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and immediately hiss. The moment my injured foot hits the rug, pain shoots straight up my leg. I grip the edge of the mattress, breathing through it, before hobbling to the door like an elderly pirate with one bad peg leg riddled with termites.
The living room is a cocoon of shadows and faint orange firelight.
And there, on the couch, is Gage—so tall his feet dangle off the armrest at one end while his head nearly brushes the other.
One arm is tucked under his head, the other resting against his chest. His flannel shirt is rumpled, and his jaw is covered in even more scruff than before, if that’s even possible.
He’s out cold, looking about as comfortable as a giraffe trying to nap in a compact car.
At least, until one of the floorboards betrays me with a creak loud enough to make me cringe, because all I was doing was trying to find some painkillers, not stage a midnight break-in.
His voice is low and rough, like gravel being poured into a coffee grinder.“What are you doing up?”
I flinch. “Oh, hi. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just… uh… didn’t recognize where I was for a second. Thought maybe I was in a Hallmark Christmas movie gone horribly wrong.”
He shifts, propping himself on an elbow, giving me a look that’s equal parts sleepy and amused. “You were in my bed—where else did you think you’d end up?”
“That sentence sounds way more scandalous than you intended, trust me.”
His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “You should be in bed. It’s freezing out here.”
I cross my arms, shivering because he’s right. “Exactly my point. You’re the one out here in Ice Station Couch while your bed sits all warm and cozy. We can swap. I’ll take the couch.”
He shifts just enough to pin me with a look, his voice still gravel-rough. “Not happening.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why not? Afraid I’ll drool on your couch?”
“I’m not letting you sleep on the couch with that foot,” he says, voice still rough with sleep but firm enough to make it clear there’s no room for argument. “Besides, I’m fine—I've been through worse than a night on the couch.”
I huff out a sigh. “Fine, then. Share the bed with me so you don’t freeze. It’s big enough for a platoon. I don’t want to be responsible if you turn into a human popsicle in your own cabin. Unless you have a mortal fear of proximity.”
One eyebrow rises slowly, and I’m not sure if it’s skepticism, amusement, or him mentally calculating the odds I’ve lost my mind entirely.
He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk.
“You’re inviting me into my own bedbecause you’re worried about me freezing to death? ”
“Think of it as an act of charity. For the good of humanity. And for the record, I need you alive to help me get out of here and back home to tropical Florida. I am not navigating my way through Narnia-level snowdrifts on my own.”
He swings his legs off the couch with an easy stretch that makes his flannel pull taut across broad shoulders, then stands, padding over in socked feet.
The movement draws my unwilling attention—apparently my eyeballs have no manners at three in the morning—and up close, I can see he’s trying not to smirk. “You’re limping worse than before.”
I glance down at my awkward limp and shoot him a look. “Thanks for pointing that out, Captain Obvious. I was going for a fierce, high-fashion runway walk—just with more wincing and less graceful balance.”
He ignores my sarcasm like it’s background noise, padding into the kitchen with that unhurried, mountain-man stride.
I hear the faint clink of a cabinet door and the rustle of a pill bottle before he reappears, a glass of water in one hand, two white tablets balanced in the other.
He holds them out to me with a simple, unceremonious, “Aspirin,” like he’s issuing orders and I’m the only recruit dumb enough to still be standing in the cold.
I take them, frowning as if they’ve offended me. “Got anything stronger? Like morphine? Or cake? Cake fixes everything. And if you have chocolate frosting, I might even forgive you for the whole couch-while-I-was-in-your-bed situation.”
He leans against the arm of the couch, his expression exaggeratedly solemn, like he’s about to deliver some grim battlefield news. “I can cut the whole foot off, if you want. No charge.”
I stare at him over the rim of the glass. “As tempting as it is to imagine a life without this throbbing pain, I have way too many cute shoes back home to risk whatever half-baked surgery you’re about to perform. So, no thanks.”
I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself, and he notices. With a small, knowing smirk, he gestures toward the bedroom. “Come on, before you actually turn into an icicle.”
We shuffle down the short hall—me doing an awkward hobble-hop; him adjusting his long strides so he’s right there beside me.
My foot’s throbbing, and his quiet presence feels steadier than I want to admit.
When we reach the bedroom, I pause at the edge of the mattress, glancing at the rumpled quilt.
“Okay, so… which side do you usually sleep on?”
He shrugs. “Wherever.”
I shake my head, planting my hands on my hips for maximum authority. “Nope. Not acceptable. Everyone has a side—this is bed-sharing 101. Spill it. What’s yours? How do you sleep each night?”
He’s quiet for a beat too long, like he’s building suspense on purpose. Then, in the same dry, straight-faced tone a man might use to read a grocery list, he says, “I sleep in the middle. Naked. So you should probably pick a side.”
My eyes go wide, heat rushing up my neck as my brain trips over itself.
“You will—no, absolutely not—be naked. You will be fully clothed, thank you very much. Flannel armor. Maybe even a parka. Layers on layers. Like, I want to hear swishing when you walk. If you even think about rolling over into my side of the bed, I will introduce your shins to the power of my good foot.”
His mouth quirks like he’s holding back a laugh, and for a split second I think he might actually say something cocky—but he just shakes his head faintly.
We both climb in, me awkwardly maneuvering my foot like I’m defusing a bomb, him settling on his side with a practiced ease that somehow manages not to make it weird…
though I catch the faintest glint in his eyes that says he’s at least a little entertained by my overly cautious entry.
For a while, it’s just the muffled hiss of snow falling outside the window, the faint pop of the fire, and the dogs’ nails clicking sporadically on the floor like a lazy metronome.
The quiet stretches long enough for my brain to fill it with all the things I should probably not be thinking about—like what he looks like under all that flannel, how those hands might feel if they weren’t just passing me a glass of water, and whether his scruff would be soft or rough if I brushed my fingers—or my lips—across it.
Then, out of the shadows, his voice slides in low and warm in the dark—almost hesitant, like it’s been wrapped in flannel, too.
It’s the tone that sneaks under my skin before I can brace for it, quiet and unhurried, carrying a weight that makes me think he’s not just talking about the bed. “Thanks for sharing.”
There’s something in his voice, something that feels like maybe letting someone close isn’t something he does often. I turn my head toward him. “Thanks for… rescuing me from my poor life choices.”
Before I can process what’s happening, there’s a rustle of paws and the soft thump of weight hitting the mattress. Toby launches himself up first, circling twice before wedging his warm, solid body right against my side like he’s claiming his spot.
A second later, Rocco clambers up with a grunt, curling himself neatly into the crook of Gage’s legs, tail giving one lazy wag as if to say, “Yeah, this’ll do.”
“Guess it’s a full house,” I mumble, my voice muffled as I burrow deeper under the covers, the heat from both man and dogs wrapping around me like a living blanket, chasing away the last of the chill.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he says, his voice a deep, velvety rumble right near my ear, the heat of his words brushing my skin and making me acutely aware of just how close he is.
I like it—more than I should—and immediately wonder what’s wrong with me for feeling that way when my heart’s still bruised from the last guy.
And for the record, I don’t mind at all.
And with that thought, I drift back into sleep, surrounded by fur, flannel, and the faint scent of wood and smoke.