Page 7 of Wrecked on the Mountain

Real cute.

And completely out of her element.

I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, squeeze my abs a little tighter, and start walking toward the fence that separates our properties.

"Careful," I say, pitching my voice low enough that she has to strain to hear it over the music. "You might pull something if you keep staring that hard."

The flush spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her fitted athletic top. For a second, she looks like she might actually run back into her cabin and hide.

Then she lifts her chin with the kind of defiance that probably served her well in Chicago operating rooms.

"Wow," she says, gripping the axe handle tighter. "Confident, aren't you?"

I can't help but smile. There's the fire I was hoping to see. She's going to need that around here.

"Not confidence," I reply, enjoying the way her breath catches when I deliberately let my gaze travel down her body and back up. "Observation."

I nod toward the log she's been battling.

"So. You gonna split that thing, or just whisper encouragement at it?"

She glances down at the wood like she'd forgotten it existed, then back at me with a expression that's part irritation, part attraction, and entirely entertaining.

"I'm... warming up," she says, but there's a tremor in her voice that suggests she's anything but warmed up to the task.

"Sure you are." I shift against the fence, and her eyes immediately track the movement of my muscles. "Just don't take your leg off. Would hate to see you on my table already."

Fuck.That was almost a tell. Almost revealed that I know exactly who she is and why she's here.

But she's too distracted by what I assume is her first close encounter with a man who works with his hands to catch the slip.

Her gaze keeps drifting to my chest, my arms, the sweat still drying on my skin, and I can practically feel the heat radiating off her from three feet away.

She notices I'm watching and her posture jerks upright like someone just called her name. She fumbles with the axe, nearly drops it, then tries to look casual with a shake of her head and a renewed steely determination.

It's painful to watch.

She actually startspretendingto chop wood. She bends down and positions a log on her chopping block and takes a swing that's so pathetic the blade barely makes contact. More like she's gently introducing the axe to the wood rather than trying to split it.

ButJesus Christ.

All I notice are two ripe peaches wrapped in black spandex, begging for my hands. The curves of her ass make my mouth water, a delicious heart-shaped temptation that has my body instantly responding with primal hunger.

I lean against the fence, crossing my arms, and watch her make a complete disaster of the whole operation.

"You're gonna want to actually swing that thing," I call out, not bothering to hide my amusement. "Wood doesn't respond well to gentle suggestions."

She startles but doesn't look at me. Just grips the handle tighter and squares her shoulders like she's about to perform surgery instead of split firewood.

"I was warming up," she says, voice pitched a little too casual.

"Warming up." I nod slowly, grinning. "Right. How's that working out for you?"

She whips her head toward me, and I get my first real look at her face.

Fuck me.

Those brown eyes are even more striking in person than in her professional headshot. Warm honey with gold flecks, framed by long, dark lashes that are definitely natural.