“You’re stressed right now?”

“I have a hotel that cost me twenty million of my own money opening tomorrow, with plenty of investors’ money tied up and my family’s name behind it. What do you think?”

I try to move past the astronomical dollar figure. “You hide your stress well, then.”

He doesn’t answer. He simply adjusts the pieces of wood. With another powerful swing, he brings the blade down on the wood, splitting it evenly with one swing. He makes it looks so effortless, like it’s nothing to hit the wood the right way. I know for a fact, from watching my father, listening to a string of cuss words from his mouth every time he messed up a split that it’s not.

A thought hits me. “You really are a lumberjack.”

He doesn’t say anything, but I catch the deep dimple settle into his cheek with his smile. I take that as my sign that he wants to work, so I purse my lips together and focus on loading up the truck while Henry chops wood.

Wondering why he brought me here for his “me” day, as he called it.

I’ve helped my dad stack a lot of wood; our old century farmhouse is heated in the winter by a woodstove in the kitchen and a stone fireplace in the living room. It’s a lot of work, and after an hour of mostly silent labor, under a sun that finally offers some real warmth, my body’s coated in a light sweat. I sling my vest and zip-up sweater over the side of the truck, leaving me in a North Gate College long-sleeved shirt.

“You go to a Christian college,” Henry says, setting his ax down. It’s a statement, not a question, like he’s familiar with North Gate.

“Yeah.”

He tosses his gloves onto the stump and then wipes his forehead with his forearm. The hair at his nape is damp and beginning to curl. “What’s that like?”

“I don’t have anything to gauge it against. I guess college, but with the integration of faith. It’s meant to ensure you don’t lose yourself or your core beliefs.”

“And how’s that going for you, now that your ex left you to fuck someone else. Have your beliefs changed?”

Again with that word. A word I’ve always found offensive but now don’t seem to mind coming from his lips. “I’ve definitely begun to question some things.”

“I noticed.” He says it so casually, like this is a normal conversation to have between the two of us.

None of this is normal.

I reach into the cooler and hold out a bottle for him. “Water?”

He eyes it, then me for a long moment, and I can’t even begin to read what’s going on in his mind. Finally he walks toward me to accept it, his steps graceful and confident, his entire aura one of ease and power. His fingertips stall over mine for a few brief seconds. “Thank you.”

I force myself not to stare at his mouth this time by zeroing on the sharp protrusion in his thick throat, and how it bobs with each gulp, and how all the muscles in his throat tense, until he’s emptied the contents.

Good grief. Had I known whose neck I was burrowing my face into, and tasting, I doubt I would have had the guts to do it, drunk or not.

Henry steps into my personal space and I automatically take a step back, until my back is hitting the truck.

A brief smile touches his lips before he tosses the empty bottle into the truck bed, his gaze on the tidy stack I’ve already built. “Looks good.” His gaze drifts down. “How are your arms? Your back?”

“Fine. I could do this all day with you.” The second the sentence replays in my mind, I grimace, my cheeks bursting with heat. “I mean...”

He starts to laugh. “You are different when you’re sober, aren’t you?”

I dip my face to avoid his heavy gaze. “Isn’t everyone?”

His hand nudges my chin, forcing my eyes back up to his. “You don’t need to be so hesitant around me.” His eyes flicker to my mouth before drifting back up.

“Yes, I do. You’re the boss, even if you don’t want to be.” Having him stand so close to me, the smell of his clean sweat filling my nostrils, is making my heart rate accelerate and the tingling between my legs intensify. It’s making me not care that he’s the boss.

“I am the boss and you’re my employee, and I know you won’t try anything like you did the other night again. So relax. Please.”

Finally he backs away. Unfastening his jacket buttons, he peels off his plaid coat and tosses it into the truck. Beneath it he’s wearing a black long-sleeved shirt. One made of that clingy material that’s supposed to absorb your sweat. And it’s clinging. Oh my God, is it ever clinging.

Henry is all muscle. He has a lean, athletic build, full of contours and bulges, right down to the ridges of his abdomen. When he heaves a giant log onto the stump I can see his arm muscles straining beautifully.

Watching him is exhilarating.

“Come here.”

My legs begin to move of their own accord, until I’m standing next to him. I let out a tiny yelp as he grabs me by the hips without warning and pulls me in front of him, my back to his chest. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to teach you how to swing an ax.”

“You assume I want to learn?”

“What do you think the Outdoor team does all day? It’s not all about pulling weeds and, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, there’s little grass to cut. That’s where your landscaping expertise lies, doesn’t it?”

My mouth drops open. I don’t dare turn around. “You checked my references?”

“We checked everyone’s references.”

I finally glance over my shoulder at him, to find his cool eyes watching me. “Then why would your team hire me?”

“They didn’t. They passed you over.”

I frown, confused. “Well then, why am I here? Was it a mistake?” I knew it! I was hired in error.

He jerks his chin toward the wood, drawing my attention back to it. Bringing his arms around to either side of my body, he lifts the ax in front of us, setting the blade against the stump. “Because I hired you.”

An odd nervousness courses through my limbs. “I don’t understand.”

“Take the handle,” he instructs, not elaborating.

I do, and he adjusts my gloved hands to have one on the end and one a few inches below. “Don’t ever cut wood with nails or curvy pieces. You’re just asking to get hurt. And skip the ones with knots in them until they dry out, unless there’s a good line away from the knot where you can split the wood.”

I’m still focused on the part about him hiring me. “Did you watch the interview videos?”

“I skimmed them.”

“Did you see mine?”

The heat radiating off his body so close behind me is warming my back, and yet his breath, skating across my neck, is sending shivers through me.

“Yes.” He pauses. “It was compelling.”

I frown, trying to recall what could possibly be so compelling. I did almost cry in it.

“You want to aim for the lines in the wood. Like this one here.” He steps away to lean forward and run his hand over the vein in the hunk of wood. “That’s where it’ll split easily. And you want to aim closer to you, rather than on the far side, so you’re not hitting the wood with the handle should you miss. You’ll hurt your arms that way.”

“Okay.” I’m doing my best to listen, as I should considering I’m about to swing an ax for the first time.

He repositions himself behind me. A slight gasp escapes me as he fits his big, muddy boot in between mine and nudges my feet apart. In a lower voice, he directs, “You need to adjust your stance. A bit wider. Yeah, like that.”

The farther apart my feet shift, the deeper the throb between my legs becomes.

“Now you lift the ax straight up above your head, and keep your arms straight.” His arms come around me again, his huge body dwarfing mine, to cover my hands and grip the ax. With his chest pressed against my back and my body seemingly enveloped in his, he helps me to lift the ax straight above my head, the strain from the weight working its way through my muscles. “Let the weight of the ax be your muscle.” We bring the weapon down on the piece of wood, hitting it square on the line he pointed out earlier. It makes a nice divot. “It’ll take you a few good hits to get all the way through.”