Mom readjusts the dirt-coated gardening gloves on her hands. She’s overseeing Simon’s every move as he awkwardly swings the sharp edge of the ax down onto the log.
He’d offered his help with whatever my mom might need. Since she was so quick to hand over the ax, I’d tagged along, declaring myself the supervisor of safety.
Although truth be told, I was doing a lot more ogling than anything.
“Focus on one spot and where you want that sharp blade to hit,” Mom instructs my in-over-his-head lumberjack.
I can tell she’s getting a kick out of his swings, too. While he definitely has the brawn-and I’ve seen for myself he can pull off the bearded and burly look-the man can’t swing an ax for shit.
“Yeah, just like that,” Mom says. Even though she and I both know it’s absolutely not “just like that.” Bless the man for going all out anyway, though.
I toss the freshly split logs into the pile of firewood, giving Simon a wide berth as I circle around to my mother. I nudge her with my elbow and whisper, “Mom, I don’t think Simon’s ever done this kind of work before.”
She pops a gloved fist on her hips, absolutely unfazed by my spoken observation. “If he survived on the rough streets of New York, I’m sure he can handle chopping wood.”
“Don’t baby him.” She spares me half a glance that warns she could come for me next, raising her voice so neither of us can forget it. “He’s still on probation, remember?”
Simon wipes his brow with the back of his hand. Sunlight catches the dark smattering of hair on his arms, dancing across that sexy line in his forearm.
He grips the ax again, that muscle leaping into action as well. “Probation? Or hazing me into the family?”
Mom cackles, proving she’s already as much of a sucker for the guy as I am. “You catch on fast. It’s only after you build a fire with the wood you’ve chopped yourself I’ll decide.”
Blowing out his breath, he gives his brow another swipe. “With matches or a magnifying glass?”
Humor puckers Mom’s lips. “Depends on what a good job you do with the logs. You might even get a lighter and a little kerosene.”
“Now we’re talking,” he says, following up the statement by the crack of the ax blade.
Better him than me, I think about having to deal with the finicky fireplace.
But my emotions immediately call me a liar when he swears, drops the axe, and yells, “Ouch.”
I’ve experienced that jolt before, although not since I was a teenager. Just a slip of a fraction, the misalignment of the blade, and all that power reverberates through your hand and your arm rather than splitting the wood.
My breath catches as I open my arms, letting the logs I’ve gathered clatter to the ground. I rush to his side, my heart tripping over its beats. “Oh my God, Simon. Are you okay?”
He pops a finger of the hand he was clutching in his mouth, sucking off the forming bead of crimson.
“Oh no, you’re bleeding.” I snag hold of his elbow so I won’t hurt his injury and tug him toward the house. “You need a bandage.”
The giant lug drags his feet, making it impossible for me to move him. “It’s just a scratch, I’m fine.”
A thin stream of blood trickles from the splinter lodged in his finger as he goes to show me how fine he is.
I switch my grip to his wrist and lift his hand inches from my face to inspect the wound. “No, that’s a pretty big sliver, and it won’t stop hurting until we get it out of there. Come on, let’s get you patched up.”
Inside, the house is warm, the scent of dinner cooking in the crockpot lingering in the air-Mom’s making chili, my favorite.
I left Simon on the couch in the living room, returning with a first aid kit I rummaged through. He watches my movements intently, amusement glittering in the depths of his gorgeous green eyes.
Exhaling a long, shallow breath to steady the tweezers in my hand, I pinch the end of the sliver. Ever so slowly and gently, I tug, dislodging the piece of wood. If you’re not paying attention, you’ll end up leaving pieces behind. And much like the real pricks of life, those don’t just go away, they fester.
“Got it,” I say, setting the sliver and tweezers on the coffee table. Using the pad of my thumb, I flip up the lid on the bottle of antiseptic. “While it was a bleeder, you were right, it’s just a scratch.”
Simon hisses lightly as the liquid bubbles. I blow a breath of cool air over it, rubbing my thumb over the center of his palm. Doing my best to distract him from any sting he might be feeling.
“I should’ve found you a pair of gloves.” Big talk for a household of three women who haven’t had a man around in over a decade. His large hands and long fingers probably won’t fit in anything we own.
He must be as okay as he claims, because he grins at me, a lackadaisical tilt to his mouth. “Aww, were you worried about me?”
I roll my eyes, nice and exaggerated so he can see it, but I’m not sure I pull it off. Not when my fingers linger on his skin longer than necessary.
“Of course,” I say. “Can’t have my fiancé losing a finger. As you’ve seen from the circus at the restaurant with my family, I care a lot about that type of thing.”
He appraises me like I’m all sweet and adorable.
Given I’m typically the one who ends up hurt, I’ve spent too many nights wishing I was super tough instead.
Featherlight, he skims his thumb over my knuckles. “I like you even more because you don’t care about that type of thing.”
Point to him for getting my sarcasm, and while I was joking moments ago, the dizzying sensations brewing within me feel terrifyingly serious. I tell myself I’ll be okay letting myself fall-just a little.
He’s my fiancé, after all. If we’re truly getting married, that means he’ll be my partner for all those types of things.
I swear, he must read my mind, because his expression softens. He continues rubbing soothing circles across the back of my hand, swiping a tingly trail with his thumb with such tenderness I’m surprised I don’t melt on the spot.
“God, you’re beautiful.” There’s a smoky bourbon tone to his voice, which comes out gruffer than usual. “For days I’ve been almost afraid to fall asleep, for fear I’ll wake up and it’ll all have been a dream.”
Giving in to his inescapable magnetic pull, I close my eyes and soak in his touch. “Me too, honestly.”
His eyes trace my features like he’s memorizing my face, everything besides his nearness and his touch fading away.
I lick my lips without thinking, a shock of electricity shivering up my core when his pupils dilate. Desire flares, and my blood comes out in hot bursts. Everything within me is reaching for every part of him.
He leans closer as I push up onto my knees. This time we don’t knock heads. His lips part as though he’s about to say something important, and I sway closer, desperate to hear it.
Then a loud, crackling pop sounds, and darkness shrouds us and everything around us.
“Oh, no-the power must’ve gone out.”
Simon stands, his dark outline blurring into our surroundings. “Don’t worry, I’ll light a candle. Right before taking me out for wood chopping, your mom showed me where to find the matches, so I know right where they are.”
Dang, I grew up in this house, and I’m not even sure where those are-everything was rearranged a few years ago to help grandma reach.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.