Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
That might be worse.
I glance over, and she lowers her phone. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and her eyes are shining with that unshakable enthusiasm she carries like a superpower. She’s smiling—soft and secret—and I feel it like a punch to the chest.
Last night, in the loft…
I almost didn’t leave that bed.
Her arm across my chest, her breath warm near my neck. The way she murmured something and nestled in closer, completely unconscious, like her body already trusted mine.
She doesn’t remember. I could tell the moment she came down the ladder this morning. No pause. No blush. No flicker of recognition when she looked at me.
Just a cheery “Morning!” and a bright-eyed smile that nearly knocked me flat.
So I didn’t mention it.
Didn’t mention her hand over my heart, or the kiss she pressed—half-dream, half-dagger—against my jaw.
Because if she didn’t know, I wasn’t going to take it from her. And if she did know but didn’t want to remember, then I sure as hell wasn’t going to make her.
So I made breakfast instead.
And now I’m chopping wood like it’s penance and praying I can keep my damn hands to myself for however long this storm has us snowbound.
My phone buzzes. I wipe my gloves off, tug it free from my pocket, and check the screen.
Sheriff Dayle.
I answer with a clipped “Ryder.”
“Hey, Rhett. Just checking in on your ridge. You and that PR girl okay?”
“We’re fine. Tree’s down across the road, but we’ve got food and heat.”
He grunts. “Good. ‘Cause we’re a little backed up clearing the main pass. Ridge roads are secondary priority until tomorrow afternoon. Might be another day or two before we get a crew out there.”
I glance toward the cabin where Ivy’s set up a tripod. “Copy that.”
“Keep warm. And stay safe.”
I hang up and stare out across the snow-covered path.
Another two days.
I can barely keep myself in check for one. She’s been here less than forty-eight hours and I’ve already had a full-blown emotional crisis under a quilt. If I spend another night in that cabin listening to her breathe while I pretend I don’t want to touch her?
Game over.
She waves at me, grinning, and calls out, “Okay, one more swing, and I think I’ve got everything I need for the opening shot!”
I nod, throat tight, and set another log on the stump.
I can do this. I can keep my distance. I can be the solid, boring man she films and forgets when she heads back to Saint Pierce.
But when I look up and see her tucking a curl behind her ear, beaming like I just lit the whole damn town square tree with one swing of my axe?
Yeah.
I’m not sure I want to.
NINE
IVY
There should be a law against men like Rhett chopping wood in public.
Or in private.
Or within a fifty-foot radius of an emotionally vulnerable PR gal with a camera and a thing for forearms.
Because watching him now… yeah. It does something to me.
He sets each log on the stump with this calm, lethal precision, grips the axe like it’s an extension of his body, and brings it down in one smooth, powerful arc. The crack of wood splitting echoes through the trees, sharp and satisfying. Muscles bunch under his flannel. Breath puffs in the cold air. The whole thing is absurdly, unfairly… hot.
“Just hold it there for a second,” I call, framing him in profile as he pauses, axe resting against his shoulder.
He glances over, breath fogging, cheeks flushed from exertion and wind. “You getting your cinematic?”
Oh, I’m getting something.
“Yep,” I say, keeping my voice breezy instead of feral. “Very rustic. Very… authentic.”
He huffs and goes back to work, but I catch the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
My chest feels warm and fizzy, like I’ve swallowed a cup of champagne and three candy cane cookies. This isn’t just attraction anymore. Not just “wow, nice hands, would like to see again in different lighting.”
It’s the way he brings in extra wood before the storm hits. The way he knows the sound of bad wind from show-off wind. The way he made biscuits this morning without a single comment about it being “women’s work”—just a quiet, competent man in a kitchen making sure I ate.
I’m in trouble.
He finishes the last log and sinks the axe into the stump with a practiced thud. I lower my phone and give him a thumb-up. “That was perfect. You’re officially the star of ‘How To Survive Winter and Also Accidentally Make the Internet Swoon.’”
“Hard pass on the swooning,” he says, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. But his tone is softer than it would’ve been two days ago. Less edge, more… resigned amusement.
He heads toward the porch, and I hurry to help stack the wood. It’s mindless, comforting work—wood, step, stack, repeat. My fingers tingle in my gloves, not from cold, but from being near him.