Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“This should be good.” I’m not mocking her—swear I’m not.
She plants her feet, adjusts her grip, and wiggles her ass. Then—without so much as a grunt—she lifts the axe, swings, and crack—splits the log clean down the center like some kind of sexy woodland assassin.
“Boom,” she says, brushing an invisible speck of dust off her shoulder. “There we go.”
My jaw might actually be hanging open. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Annabelle extends the axe, and I take it.
I blink over at her perfectly halved log. Then at her. “How do you know how to do that?”
She shrugs. “Fall Fest. I managed four lumberjacks without a single lost limb. You think I didn’t learn a trick or two?”
I rake a hand through my hair, still processing. “I’ve never been so humbled.” Or so turned on at the same time . . .
My cabinmate regards me. “What do you need firewood for, anyway? It’s warm outside.”
There was an axe. I wanted to chop stuff. Roar out my frustrations into the woods.
I Am Man, Hear Me Roar.
You know, manly shit.
I hobble back to the woodpile with the axe and take up the same stance Annabelle had, hoist the axe, and take another swing.
I miss. She giggles.
I scowl at her over my shoulder. “I could do without the audience.” The last thing I want is her watching and judging and criticizing my technique.
“Unfortunately for you, I have nowhere to be.”
Dammit! “Why don’t you mosey on next door and get like—a spa treatment or something?” The axe hangs in my hand uselessly.
She snorts. “A spa treatment? I had no idea there was a resort so close to the cabin, or I probably wouldn’t have rented this place. It’s been one surprise after the next, hasn’t it?”
That is putting it mildly.
“Watching you is way more entertaining—no offense.”
Some taken. I shift my grip, settle into a better stance—like she showed me—and try again. This time, the axe actually lands on the log, but then sort of . . . bounces off.
“Oof.” Annabelle winces. “Points for enthusiasm.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not!” She holds up her hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Look, if it makes you feel better, you’re way more rugged than the guys I usually hang out with. They wouldn’t know which end of an axe to hold.”
She is so full of shit. “You’re buttering me up so I don’t toss you in the lake later, right?”
Her grin is pure sunshine. “You would toss me into the lake?”
Abso-fucking-lutely.
She steps closer, gesturing at my grip. “Let me show you.”
“Why do I feel like you’re about to destroy what’s left of my manhood?”
“Because I am,” she teases, arms going around me as if I were a toddler signed up for T-ball. “Relax your shoulders. Widen your stance. No, wider.”
“Wider? This is as wide as it gets!”
“Stop whining, I’m trying to keep you from splitting your foot open.”
Her hands brush my arms as she adjusts my elbows. Electricity zings through me, sharp and impossible to ignore, and I briefly wonder if she feels it, too, or if I’m just horned up because I’ve been holed up in the middle of nowhere—and haven’t banged for weeks.
No hookups while my knee is healing.
“Now, swing,” Little Miss Bossy Pants tells me.
I swing. And this time, the log cracks right down the middle.
Annabelle throws both arms in the air as if I just won an Olympic gold, whooping into the wind. “Look at you! You did it!”
I am a child who needs praise. I beam at her. “I’m a fast learner.”
She nods, crossing her arms. “Obviously you had a good teacher.”
“Uh-huh, guess I don’t have to chuck her in the water now.” I laugh. “Remind me to put you on the payroll.”
Annabelle studies me a few seconds before sighing. “Actually, you know what? I think I’ll take a break from teaching cavemen and get a tan.”
My brow arches. “A tan?”
She shrugs, already sliding off her hoodie to reveal a strappy little bikini top that makes my brain mush. “The lake’s right there, the sun’s out—why not?”
I clear my throat, gaze absolutely not lingering on the swell of cleavage peeking over her bright-pink top. “You know you’ll scare the fish away, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “Try not to chop your foot off while I’m gone.”
Annabelle saunters off down the lawn toward the dock, rearranging the deck chairs and moving the large umbrella stand. Spreads out a towel, rolls another one to use as a pillow, and—God help me—pushes her leggings down.
I pretend not to watch. But . . .
I have a working set of eyes, and the suit is bright pink, two bows tied at her hips, a second one behind her neck, and I’m 99 percent sure if she sneezes too hard, the whole thing is coming off.
She adjusts the straps, oblivious to the war waging in my brain, then plops down to rub sunscreen over her shoulders. I swear I can hear her humming.