Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 31042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 155(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 155(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
He’s got a large tree trunk that’s already been turned into smaller pieces, but even those small pieces are huge. “How many trees does it take you to get through the winter?”
“This isn’t for me. This is for Kringle Christmas Tree Ranch. I cut down the trees, turn it into firewood, and deliver it to them. They mix it with a proprietary blend of spices that make it smell like Christmas magic then sell it to their holiday visitors.”
“That sounds magical,” I tell him, and suddenly, I’m feeling sad that I won’t be here for the holidays. It would be fun to celebrate with Whiskey. I could get Bella a big rawhide bone for Christmas, and Tobias some new catnip toys.
“You’ll need this.” He holds out an axe. It’s heavier than I anticipated.
Before we left, he made me change my clothes. I’m wearing his long-sleeved flannel shirt that I absolutely did not spend a moment sniffing before I changed into it. Besides that, he also insisted on heavy-duty work gloves that don’t let me feel his touch when he passes it to me. “I’ve never done this before.”
“It’s easy. What you want to do is lean back. Let your swing come from your core,” he instructs.
I miss the log I’m aiming for entirely, the axe landing in the trunk of the tree. I try to lift it out but it’s stuck pretty badly. “This is harder than it looks,” I grunt as I try in vain to get it out. Look, I’m not some delicate little thing, but this activity is nothing like I anticipated. “It’s so easy in the movies.”
“You just need to get the form down. It’ll get better after that. Try again,” he encourages, plucking the axe up as if I embedded it in paper and not a tree trunk. He’s done that all day. With every new task, he’s offered quiet encouragement and gentle reassurance. It almost feels like he believes in me. A girl could get used to that feeling.
I try twice more, each time getting it stuck. Finally, I blow out a breath in frustration. “I’m not getting this. Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”
He nods and takes the axe from me.
“Wait, don’t you need to remove your shirt? It’ll help me understand the form better.”
He smirks like he knows this has nothing to do with form but reaches for the buttons on his own flannel. He flicks them open slowly, unwrapping the material from his perfect torso. Now that he’s not encased in material, I can see how broad his shoulders really are. His tanned, toned arms that perfectly sculpted from hours spent cutting down trees are dotted with tattoos and scars.
His chest hair is light but still thick and plentiful. My fingers itch to touch it. I want to know what it feels like. But It’s the sight of the scars along his side that have me stepping forward. I'm a makeup artist, and I’ve often done special effects work including scars. But I’ve never seen scars quite like these.
He doesn’t flinch when I come to stand beside him. I keep my gaze locked on his as I gently trace the puckered lines of his skin. His breathing goes shallow.
“Shrapnel,” he grunts out the word.
I left my gaze drop, examining the lines that are proof this man before me is a warrior. “Does it still hurt?”
“Only inside my heart.”
I glance up at him, our gazes meeting. For the first time, we look at each other. Really look without pretenses or shields. There’s only the raw honesty of two people connecting in the middle of the forest on an autumn day underneath the endless blue sky.
“Lost a lot of good friends that day, men that were like brothers,” he explains, his normally gravelly tone going even deeper. This is the most he’s ever told me about himself, and now I understand, we’re alike. We’re both wounded, and we both sought refuge outside of civilization, away from the prying eyes of other people.
I don’t tell him I’m sorry. Those are hollow words. They don’t bring back the ones that were lost, and they aren’t a bandage that can be placed over wounds that still fester and bleed. “You were brave.”
“Or maybe just lucky.”
“Luck is about surviving. Bravery is about rebuilding,” I say. Isn’t that why I’m here after all? I’m on a quest to prove to myself that I’m brave enough and strong enough to rebuild my life. That one horrible moment doesn’t have to define me forever. Maybe this cabin and this life is the same thing for him.
My confession leaves me feeling more naked than the trees that have shed their leaves already. This connection between us is too strong, too powerful. I don’t know if I can risk exploring it, so I drop my hand. I lick my suddenly dry lips. “Show me.”