2 Chapter 2
My shoulders slump. So much for my grand plan. Now what?
I glare at the three different paths slithering off in different directions into the forest to who-knows-where. Do I pick one and hope for the best? Or do I backtrack to the last familiar thing I remember seeing? Would that even help, since I apparently took a wrong turn from there?
My older brother Karl’s words, from one of the many times he tried to dissuade me from moving, pop into my mind. “What do you know about living in the countryside? You’ll be eaten by a bear or something. Don’t be an idiot, stick to what you know.”
Stick to what you know. That’s his life mantra. He’s the least adventurous person in the whole world, and wanting a change in my life, wanting a slower pace, is a grave offense in his book. If we’d lived a hundred years ago, he’d lock me into an asylum and throw away the key for being so crazy and unhinged as to move to the country
Nope. Nu-uh. I’m notgoing to allow him to be right. Aside from this little…mishap…I’m doing great here in a small community. I haven’t alienated a single one of my neighbors with my gay ways, as Karl had predicted.
Besides, the Internet says there are no bears in these woods. They better be right about that!
Another look along each of the paths reveals nothing new or familiar. Need I resort to eeny meeny miny moto decide which way to go?
Then I hear it. A faint “whack,” making me freeze in place. Where did that “whack” come from? I knit my eyebrows together. Was it even a “whack” or did I imagine it? But just as I’m about to move, I hear it again. It isa whacking sound somewhere in the distance.
I’m afraid to move a muscle and make a sound so I’ll drown it out. I close my eyes and focus on listening.
Whack whack whackcomes from my right-hand side. Is that…someone chopping wood?
My eyelids fly open and my breath whooshes out of me. Someone chopping woodmeans a person. A personmeans someone who can help!
More whacking seems to confirm my theory, and I scramble in the direction of the sound, stopping regularly to get my bearings and make sure I’m heading in the right direction. The sound grows louder, confirming I’m indeed on the correct path, and I hurry my steps.
It doesn’t take long for me to locate whoever is chopping wood—by now the sound is unmistakable—and soon I step into a clearing.
It’s a perfect circle with edges so sharp and distinct, it can’t be a natural clearing. Across from me, on the other side, sits an old-looking, tiny and charming cabin. It’s painted in the classical red-and-white color scheme, has a blue door, and looks well cared for, with lovely gingerbread trimming and a porch that looks perfect for a cup of morning coffee.
In front of the little house, a man is chopping wood. A shirtlessman, dressed only in a faded pair of jeans and clunky boots. The muscles in his arm bunch and flex as he wields the axe, his shoulders wide, his chest broad, tapering into a slim waist, narrow hips, and long, thick legs.
The axe travels in a perfect arch over his head—his back muscles dancing underneath his sweat-glistening skin—and hits the log with a loud whack. When he bends to pick up a new piece of wood to attack, my gaze is drawn to his ass.
Oh my.
It’s round and full and I bet it would fit perfectly in my hands as I sink to my knees behind him and bury my face between his—
I snap my mouth shut so I won’t catch a fly. No drooling over a man wielding his axe like he’s a goddamned pro, M?ns! He doesn’t looklike Leatherface, but one never knows. And yes, that was a chainsaw and not an axe, but I stand by my analogy.
Shaking my head at myself, I cross the clearing, making sure to be noisy so I won’t startle him and make him twirl around and throw the axe at me for trespassing, burying it in my forehead. “Excuse me,” I call when he’s about to pick up a new log.
The man turns around, his hand shadowing his eyes so he won’t be blinded by the low-hanging autumn sun.
Oh gawd, if I thought he was fine from behind, he’s even better from the front. Black curly hair covers his chest and abdomen, he’s got a black beard, a neat mohawk, dark eyebrows, and lines around his eyes. “Yes?” he says as I approach.
“I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.”
“Nah, it’s fine. I could use a break.” He lowers the axe until it’s hanging by his side. “What can I do for you?”
I walk a little closer so I won’t have to yell. “I was out picking mushrooms—” I hold out my basket as though I’m presenting Exhibit A to a jury hearing my case “—and I got lost in the forest.”
“You got lost?” The beginnings of a smirk play on his face, but to his credit, he doesn’t let it loose.
