by Tawna Fenske
Janelle nodded in the darkness. “Yes.”
“Good.”
He slid his hand from her hip and rolled away, turning his back to her again.
“Understood,” she mouthed silently in the darkness.
It was the biggest lie she’d told in months.
Because the truth was, she understood very little about what she was feeling right then for Schwarzkopf Alexander Patton.
And that was more terrifying than ghosts or tree branches or anything else out there in the shadows.
…
Schwartz woke up alone in his bed, which is pretty much how he’d done it every morning for the last ten years.
So why the hell did it bug him this time?
He threw the covers off, grumbling to himself as he lumbered out to the living room in his boxer shorts. Sherman raised his massive, shaggy head from the dog bed in front of the fireplace and thumped his tail on the hardwood floor.
“Some watchdog you are,” Schwartz muttered. “You couldn’t have warned me about the crazy woman prowling around the house trying to crawl into bed with me last night?”
The wolf-dog yawned, then stood up and stretched before trotting to the door. Schwartz unlocked the bolts and pushed it open, letting the beast out to do his business. There was a chill the air, and the bright yellow needles on the tamaracks were a sign summer had decided to give up her fight and let autumn bend her over. He breathed in the vanilla scent of ponderosa pine bark, and the muddy, grassy perfume of the creek just over the hill.
Sherman came bounding back inside, leading the way to his dog dish in the corner. Schwartz shut the door and followed, still groggy with sleep.
“There you go, boy,” he muttered as he dumped a pile of kibble into a dog dish the size of a hubcap before turning to fill his water bowl at the sink. “Sorry, we’re all out of Perrier. Tap water will have to do.”
A soft laugh behind him made Schwartz whirl around so fast he nearly smacked his head on the cabinet. Janelle stood there in the doorway of his office looking sleepy and tousled and so fuckable he nearly groaned. She wore a familiar sweatshirt that came all the way to her knees, and she hugged the arms of it around her like a security blanket.
She smiled. “So you take breakfast orders from your dog?”
“You steal clothing from strangers?”
He probably sounded like a dick, but she just grinned and stepped into the living room, pushing up the sleeves of the sweatshirt as she padded barefoot toward him. “I got cold, and this was hanging on the back of your office chair. It’s cozy, thanks.”
Schwartz grunted and tried not to look at her legs. God, they were great legs.
“Yep,” he said. “Montana’s damn cold.”
“Did the fire go out?”
“It dies down to embers at night. Gotta rebuild it every morning.”
“That sounds like a nice metaphor.”
“Yeah, I’m a regular fucking Longfellow.”
“Hmm,” she said, and he could have sworn she glanced at his crotch.
Probably should have thrown on some pants before coming out here. Probably should have done a lot of things differently, starting with not letting her in his bed for even a minute last night. What the hell had he been thinking?
You weren’t exactly thinking with your head. Not that one, anyway.
He had to get it together. He was supposed to be keeping her safe, not mentally undressing her. Mac, Sheri, Grant, Grant’s fiancée—they’d all trusted him to watch over her out here. The last thing he needed was to get distracted by pointless shit when everyone was counting on him.
He’d done that before, with tragic consequences.
Schwartz turned away from Janelle and bent to check the woodstove for any remaining embers. There was still a faint glow there, which should make things easier. “Get dressed,” he said over his shoulder.
“What for?”
“Because your shoes don’t match your fucking handbag. Besides that, your outfit’s not exactly ideal for splitting wood.”
“Splitting wood?”
“You think it splits itself?”
“No, I just—you mean before coffee?”
“You turned your nose up at my coffee, remember?”
“It’s six in the morning. I’m having second thoughts.”
He glanced over his shoulder to see her gazing longingly at his rusty old coffeemaker. He shut the door of the woodstove a little too loudly, making her jump.
“Get dressed,” he repeated, then stalked off to his bedroom to do the same.
He had his jeans and thermals and flannel shirt and wool socks on in a matter of minutes, and was sitting by the door lacing up his boots when he heard her footsteps. He looked up to see her standing in the doorway of the office with her hair loose around her shoulders and a pink sweater that looked pussy-willow soft.
“You didn’t bring any tighter jeans?” he grumbled. “Those aren’t quite cutting off all your circulation.”
“These?” She looked down at her legs, forcing him to do the same. Not that he needed a fucking excuse. “They’re skinny jeans. Gucci. Very practical, since they tuck into the top of my boots.”
“Practical. Exactly what I was going to say.”
“Grouch.”
“What? Maybe I’ll order a pair for myself.”
She laughed and flounced into the room, looking entirely too cheerful considering what a jerk he was being. “Look, I even have gloves,” she said, pulling on a pair of black leather gloves that looked more suited to lifting a champagne flute than splitting logs.
“Got eye protection?” he asked.
“Eye protection?”
“Right. Something to protect your eyes.”
“Thanks for clarifying. Thought maybe you wanted me to put goggles on my ears.” She turned and scurried back into the office. “Hang on,” she called.
Schwartz finished lacing his boots and stood up. He reached for the doorknob as she emerged into the room again looking like a goddamn movie star.
“Ray-Bans,” he muttered. “Perfect.”
She pulled the glasses off and grinned as she tucked them into her pocket. Then she pulled on a bright pink knit cap with a tassel on top. “I’m surprised you can identify Ray-Bans at a glance.”
“I’m related to Mac, remember? The guy removed his sunglasses maybe twice during our entire childhood.”
“That’s so weird to think of you and Mac sharing a childhood.”
“Why’s that?” he asked, not sure where the sudden prick of defensiveness came from.
“I can’t picture either of you as kids. Both of you seem like guys who leaped fully formed from the womb and started marching in military formation.”
The thought that he had anything in common with one of his siblings startled him so much he dropped the goggles he’d just grabbed off the shelf by the door. He picked them up, annoyed by how awkward he felt having a female presence in the house.
Not just any female. Her.
He pushed open the front door and stepped outside, conscious of Janelle following closely behind him. A hint of her flowery bath oil hovered in the air around them as he led her to the woodshed on the east side of the house. He pulled a key from his pocket, shoved it into the padlock, and yanked open the small storage box.
“Let’s start with the basics,” he said, running his fingers over the neat row of wooden handles. “I like mauls.”
She beamed at him, the sunlight catching the caramel-colored strands in her hair. “I like malls, too! I didn’t realize there were any nearby. I’m more partial to locally owned boutiques with fashions from up-and-coming designers, but if there’s a mall we can visit—”
“No, not malls—mauls.” He pulled one out to show her. “This is a splitting maul. I prefer using this, as opposed to an ax.”
She reached out and touched the handle, and Schwartz tried not to think about how great those pink-tipped fingers looked stroking the wood shaft.
“What’s the difference between an ax and a maul?” she asked.
“An ax has a narrow, sharp head, and it’s used for chopping.”
“We’re not chopping?”
“No, we’re splitting. Chopping wood means you’re cutting across the fibers. You end up with a lot of small chips, which isn’t what we want for firewood.”
“Okay.”
“Splitting wood is different. You’re dividing a piece of wood in two by forcing the wood fibers apart parallel to the grain. That’s why you use a maul. The head is blunt and fat, and the larger size of it forces the crack to split wide open with pressure.”
He didn’t realize until the words left his mouth how filthy he was making it all sound. Maybe she hadn’t noticed. Maybe his sex-addled brain was processing everything through a filter of smut. Maybe it all sounded perfectly innocent to Janelle.
“So you’re saying it’s better to have a big, fat head at the end of your shaft, as opposed to a smaller one?”
The smirk on her face told him she hadn’t missed a thing.
Hell.
Schwartz tugged at the collar of his flannel shirt. “Let’s split some fucking logs.”
He stalked over to the table-sized stump he used for splitting firewood and grabbed a bolt of mountain ash. He slammed it onto the stump with more force than he probably needed, prompting Janelle to jump back.
“I used a chain saw to de-limb the tree and cut the trunk into logs,” he explained. “Now we need to split the logs into smaller pieces that fit in the woodstove. Understand?”
“Yes. So I don’t get to use a chain saw?”
“The idea of you with a chain saw is something that’ll haunt my nightmares for months.”
“But you trust me with a maul?”
“Just barely. Okay, so what you want to do is stand like this.”
He demonstrated the position, and Janelle nodded, then arranged her body into a pose that looked more like she was bracing herself to be bent over and taken from behind. Then again, she could stoop down to tie her shoe and he’d probably think that.
“Like this?” she asked.
“No, not like that. Like this.”
She made a face, tried again, then frowned. “I don’t understand. Show me.”
“I am showing you.”
“And I’m doing what it looks like to me. If I’m not doing it right, you have to show me what I need to do to get it.”
“Fine,” he muttered, leaning the maul against a tree. He moved to stand behind her and caught the back of each elbow in one of his palms. She was tiny and soft and smelled fucking incredible. He tried to press her arms out straight, but only succeeded in pressing his own body over hers.
He was starting to get dizzy.
“Your arms need to be like this,” he muttered. “And you’ve gotta spread your legs.”
“All right.”
“Spread them wider.”
“Okay,” she said faintly.
“Good. Now arch your back.”
“Uh-huh. Hey, Schwartz?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you always talk this dirty when you’re chopping wood?”
He stepped back, wondering if he had any blood left in his brain. “We’re not chopping. We’re splitting.”
“Got it.”
He put some distance between them and grabbed the maul again, figuring it was a safer thing to grab than Janelle.
“Okay, so this is a nice chunk of hardwood—” Hard wood. Really hard wood.
Fuck!
“It’s mountain ash, is what I’m saying,” he said. “But we still have to inspect it carefully before we start splitting.”
“What are we looking for?”
“Knots. This shouldn’t be too knotty, but—”
“Wait, why is naughty wood a bad thing?”
He glanced at her face to see if she was smirking again. She wasn’t, so it was just his goddamn brain hearing things wrong. He cleared his throat. “Knotty wood is hard to get through, especially if it’s green. You can hurt yourself, or stand there all day whacking the wood.”
Oh, for the love of all things holy.
“Whacking the wood. Got it. Okay then.”
She was smirking again. Schwartz grimaced and held out the maul. “Here. Let’s see you lift that.”
She reached for it and nearly fell over when he handed it to her. “Holy cow! How much does this thing weigh?”
“Uh, I’m not sure.” He hadn’t actually thought about it, but now that he watched her trying to lift the heavy implement, it occurred to him she’d have an awfully tough time hefting the damn thing over her head. Why hadn’t he considered that before?
You’re the king of not thinking things through, dumbass.
“Want to know something cool about chopping wood?” she asked, still wrestling with the maul.
“Splitting,” he muttered, only half listening at this point.
“Whatever. Did you know that one hour of chopping wood can boost male testosterone levels by almost fifty percent?”
“What?”
“It’s true. Researchers from UC-Santa Barbara determined that when they studied a tribe in Brazil or Bolivia or someplace like that. I forget. Anyway, wood chopping is one of those activities that has a crazy effect on testosterone. I learned about it when I was designing an infographic for Men’s Health last year.”
Great. That’s exactly what he needed right now, more testosterone coursing through his body, more blood pumping to zones beyond his brain, more reasons to lose his fucking head around Janelle Keebler.
Schwartz cleared his throat. “You know, it’s not all that cold out right now. Maybe we should skip the fire today.”
Janelle frowned. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“You’re kidding, right? It’s freezing.” She puffed out a lungful of frosty air. “You can see my breasts.”
The last bit of blood in his brain headed south. “What?”
“Breath. You can see my breath. What did you think I said?”
She wasn’t smirking, so clearly he was losing both his hearing and his mind. Either way, there was no way he could keep this up.
Oh, you keep it up just fine when she’s around.
“Why don’t you go back inside and make some coffee?”
She stared at him oddly for a few beats, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. Want me to make you a Pop-Tart?”
“Yes. Please.”
“Okay then. See you inside.” She turned and practically skipped back to the cabin.
It was all he could do not to stare at her ass.
…
Breakfast was a tense affair, a far as Janelle could tell. So was the impromptu lesson Schwartz gave her on how to build a fire.
So was pretty much everything, if Janelle stopped to think about it. She wasn’t sure if Schwartz hated her or wanted to have sex with her. It was possible the two weren’t mutually exclusive.
You just have sex on the brain, her subconscious told her.
How could she not? She was sharing nine hundred square feet of space with a lumberjack who looked like a Greek god. Maybe sleeping with him wouldn’t be the worst thing. Maybe they were even compatible. Maybe—
Right, because your taste in men has always been so stellar?
The thought made her feel glum. Okay, so she’d had no idea Jacques was a heroin importer. He’d told her when they’d first started dating that he managed a pharmaceutical company. Later, after she’d found out what he really did for a living, he’d pointed out that he’d never actually lied.
Nope. He dealt pharmaceuticals, all right. Janelle had just been too blind to notice what kind.
“Your picker is broken,” her sister had told her a long time ago when she’d gone crying to her about some silly boy who’d broken her heart.
Janelle eyed Schwartz from across the desk in his office and remembered those words again.
“What?”
She blin
ked, and realized she’d been staring at him. “Nothing,” she mumbled. “Sorry. I just stare off into space sometimes when I’m brainstorming a project.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
It was the most they’d spoken all day, ever since Schwartz cleared a space for her laptop at the end of his long desk and grudgingly agreed they could share his work space. She knew he designed security systems for government buildings, but she wasn’t entirely sure what that entailed. Apparently it was something he could do out here in the middle of nowhere with minimal human interaction, which was probably the big selling point for him.
Her job as a graphic designer meant she could work from just about anywhere, too, though she was accustomed to doing it with a little more traffic outside and the option to pop down the block for a latte every few hours.
“Don’t you ever get lonely out here?” she asked.
The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to consider whether it was a smart thing to ask. Schwartz’s quick reply suggested he’d given even less thought to her words than she had.
“No.”
“No?” she asked. “Not ever?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t you miss your friends? Your family? Creature comforts like Thai takeout and fast taxis and French flea markets?”
Something dark flashed in his eyes, and Janelle felt pretty sure it wasn’t a longing for French flea markets.
“I said I don’t get lonely,” he said. “What part of that doesn’t make sense to you?”
“The part where you’re a good-looking guy with a certain unique charm and a basic human need for companionship. I don’t understand why you’d want to be out here all by yourself, cut off from civilization, your friends, your family, your—”
“I’m not alone. There’s Sherman.”
Janelle glanced down at the floor, where the big wolf-dog had made himself at home on the cushioned bed Schwartz had dragged in from the living room. The beast had been snoring for the last hour, but his ears pricked at the sound of his own name.
“Sherman’s good company, I’ll give you that,” Janelle admitted.
“This, from the woman who ran screaming from him less than twenty-four hours ago.”
“Yeah, well, being trapped in a cabin together has a way of breeding fondness and intimacy.”