Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I press a kiss to her temple. “Best day ever.”
She hums in agreement, her fingers lacing with mine.
We lie there in the clearing, under the stars, not ready to move yet—soaking up every last second of the night before Monday rolls around.
Chapter 23
Harris
The lakefront is buzzing, the air thick with the scents of sawdust, sweat, and maple-fried donuts. Children perched on parents’ shoulders, waving miniature axes—harmless replicas sold at the makeshift concession stand. Caramel apples. Sizzling bratwursts. Mulled cider.
I stand at the edge of it all, hands on my hips, stomach twisted in knots. Laughter and chatter are almost drowned out by the country song blasting from the loudspeakers—and the hired lumberjacks taking practice swings on logs nearby.
For the first time all week, I feel like a fraud.
A phony. Fake.
I am, without a doubt, the worst lumberjack in this entire lineup and have no business being here.
Not to mention: I’m injured! The ache in my ribs is a dull, persistent reminder that I shouldn’t be doing this.
Instant regret.
Abort mission.
I step forward, rolling my shoulders, bracing myself for Annabelle’s pep talk before the day begins, eyes scanning the crowd.
Lucy has taken a spot among all the people, and I smile to myself.
She’s perched on the edge of her seat, her hands wrapped around a coffee cup, and I can see her grin from here. Unlike the rest of the spectators, who are here for the spectacle of burly men chopping wood, she’s here for me.
Probably to make sure I don’t kill myself—or keel over.
She’s so damn adorable. I wish we were still snuggled in her warm cloud of a bed. It smells like her, feels like her . . .
“Excuse me.” Annabelle clears her throat, stepping around me to the center of our little lumberhuddle. She’s chipper, sporting red lipstick as sharp as the axe she’s holding, which she brandishes like a pointer as she paces in front of us.
Kind of like a general in the army . . .
“Listen up, you fine specimens of flannel-clad manliness. You’ve been training for this moment your whole lives,” she announces theatrically. “Some of you have been conned into this under questionable circumstances—and little white lies.”
When her gaze flicks over to me, the guys chuckle.
I scowl.
“Guys, it doesn’t matter how you got here—all that matters is four out of eight lumberjacks are here. Warm bodies.” She twirls the axe. “In less than five minutes, you’re all gonna be up there, chopping logs for the glory of the Fall Fest. Some of you will impress the crowd, earning thunderous applause. Some of you will look like absolute morons. And some of you”—she grins at me—“will make a certain yoga instructor swoon.”
I roll my eyes. Cheesefest.
“Here’s the deal,” she says seriously, all business. “Don’t cut off any fingers—we don’t have liability insurance for contracted labor. Don’t embarrass yourselves. And most importantly . . .” Her voice trails off. “Give the people what they came for.”
Bill whoops. Wally slaps my back so hard my ribs scream. Kyle and I high-five.
“Game faces, gentlemen!” Annabelle announces, thrusting the axe at me.
The crowd buzzes with anticipation, the announcer’s voice booming over the speakers, hyping up us “lumberjacks” for the Fall Fest Wood-Chopping Challenge. Wally and Bill begin stretching nearby like this is the damn Olympics, and my eyes trail Annabelle as she walks off, soaking up the energy, waving to the crowd with both hands.
“Harris!”
I glance up, following the sound of my name.
Lucy is halfway down the bleachers, weaving through the crowd, dark hair tied into a high ponytail that bounces with each step. As always, she’s got a determined look on her face as she beelines toward me.
Fantastic.
I need a hug.
Full frontal, if possible . . .
I shift the axe to my other hand, steeling myself as she skids to a stop in front of me, breathless, her cheeks flushed. It’s a cold morning, and the air is chilly, the smells of cinnamon and hot tea tease my nose the closer she gets.
“You okay?” she asks, gaze dropping to where I’m cradling my ribs.
“Peachy,” I deadpan, unable to lie. I woke up slightly sore, and she gave me a few ibuprofen to take the edge off, but they haven’t kicked in yet.
Lucy tilts her head, studying me. Reaching out, she places her palm lightly over my chest, right above my racing heart. “Ready for all this?”
I swallow hard. For all her teasing, all her sass, there’s something about the way she’s looking at me—like she actually cares. Like she sees, through all my grumbling and joking around, that I’m doing this for her.
To impress her.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I swallow again. “This is more nerve racking than the Super Bowl.”
Her brows go up. “You’ve played in the Super Bowl?”
This is no time for her teasing. “Are you fucking with me right now?”