I stared at the cabin before me. It definitely looked a bit different since the last time I stood in almost the same spot.
The small back porch had been cleaned up. It looked like the windows had been replaced. The roof was now metal and in a lot better shape than when Mr. Coleman lived in the cabin.
From where I stood, all it needed was some landscaping and it would actually look like a home instead of a hunting cabin. Or former hunting cabin.
Hunting cabins in the area usually only had the basics and weren’t used all year long. And sometimes “hunters” only used their cabins and hunting as an excuse to escape their wives and family for a week.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
I might not be an outdoorsman, but I certainly knew what chopping wood sounded like. Since it was only May and winter was a long way off, I had no idea why Chase would be chopping wood now. Unless he was only trying to get a jump on it.
I followed the sound around the right side of the cabin, pausing only to quickly check the propane gauge to make sure Chase had filled it. He had.
Next to the huge tank sat what looked like a new generator. Smart. When the electricity went out—and up on the mountain that was a guaranteed occurrence during some of the crazy storms—he’d have a backup.
New roof. New windows. New generator. A full propane tank. Evidence that the man was digging in his heels and staying a while.
I even spotted a new satellite dish on the roof. Most likely for internet service. With Chase being an author, having access to the internet was crucial. I couldn’t do research, publish or market my books without it.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
As I continued to follow the sound, my eyes scanned the area near the firewood lean-to. It wasn’t coming from there. The old stump Mr. Coleman used to split wood still remained where it was, but no Chase.
As the sound continued, I twisted my head to the left and toward the “front” of the cabin, the side that faced Eagles Lake, the small private lake Chase now owned.
On the opposite side of the cabin at the edge of the surrounding woods was another huge stump. A chainsaw sat on the ground off to the side, and with his back to me was…
A shirtless, sweaty, very focused Chase.
I figured he’d be writing when I drove up. Holy hell, was I wrong.
So, so wrong.
I’d never been so happy to be wrong. Under his glistening skin, his muscles flexed and rippled with each strike of the ax. Each lift and fall of his arms.
It had been a month since Chase had come into The Next Page when he bought all of his own books.
Apparently, that month of living in the woods had done a body good.
Really good.
The I had to wipe away the saliva that caught in the corner of my mouth type of good.
Hot damn.
Why were the men who caught my attention always straight? Or a dick? Or both?
With my shitty luck and also being hindered by living in Bumfuck, Pennsylvania, I was afraid I’d never find my soulmate, once again unlocking that fear of dying alone.
While Chase might not even be close to being my soulmate, that didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate the fine masculine specimen before me.
From the two times he was in the store, I knew he was at least two or three inches taller than me, his body naturally bulkier, his shoulders a bit wider. Even from what little I could see of his face, it didn’t look as ragged as it had been the last time he’d been in town.
It could be the physical exercise he was getting, which was apparent from the small mountain of split firewood next to him. It might also have to do with him being outside and getting lots of fresh air.
Of course, I needed to get closer to verify my observations and to give him what I brought as sort of an olive branch.
As I moved closer, I realized he had no clue I was there. He hadn’t heard my truck come up the lane or me walking toward him because of his constant chopping.
He didn’t stop or even pause once while I watched. He split one piece of firewood right after the other like he was on a mission to beat back demons with that ax.
The closer I got, the easier it was to see the sweat beading on his forehead and rolling down the sides of his face. To see the muscles surging under the wide expanse of his back. The way his flexing thighs filled his jeans.
I swore his legs were thicker than a month ago, too.
If I didn’t know any better, at first glance I would think Chase was some wild mountain man living off the land, not a bestselling author of crime thrillers.