Page 6 of The Uncut Wood

Was he seriously mocking me by taking his time? He could be so fucking cocky.

He was definitely giving everybody a show. He’d make a helluva professional wrestler. He already had Viking and Highlander caricatures to work with.

With a sulky grunt, I split my final piece with relative ease, but Gunner still didn’t move. He sat there, boots crossed at the ankle and golden chest hair glistening, like he was waiting for me.

I stepped up to the God Log and looked down at him.

Was he throwing this on purpose?

Everybody could see the smirk on his face, but up close his eyes sparkled with… something different. Something private only I could see.

Beyond all the exertion, Gunner’s look caused my pulse to pound even harder.

I wasn’t sure I wanted him to let me win, but the more important question was, did he want me to win?

Because that would mean…

Fuck. I couldn’t allow myself to get lost in that daydream when I had a real chance to make it come true.

Playing my part in the theatrics, I kicked his boots off the God Log. “Didn’t your mama teach you to keep your feet off the coffee table?”

“It would make a really cool coffee table, wouldn’t it? It’s kind of a shame. I don’t think I can bring myself to break it down.”

“Then get out of my way,” I said with a smile. “I really don’t want to hurt you.”

Gunner stood and stepped back, gesturing for me to have at it. There were boos mixed with frenzied applause. The crowd probably didn’t understand what exactly it was he was letting me win or why. Only a few people knew about my wager, but, hell, most of the campground staff had to know I was crazy for him.

Jim was moving in for a close-up of my face, narrating a mile a minute.

My left hand felt like it was on fire, but the possibility that Gunner wanted to lose the wager was the best anesthesia in the world. I didn’t feel a thing as I grabbed my axe with both hands and powered through, blow after blow. It probably took thirty strokes, but I cracked the God Log in two and then into four.

I. Fucking. Won.

I staggered back, raising my axe overhead for the camera and the live audience.

Gunner stepped toward me, slow clapping. “Well, well, well. Hank has done it, daddies and gentle boys.” He clasped my shoulder. “I know I speak for everyone who’s ever shared a bunk with you when I say you’re clearly a jacking champion.”

“Asshole,” I growled, but there was no anger in it. Heat, yes. Heart-clenching lust twisted with affection.

I was grinning like a fool, and Gunner was grinning too. Grinning back at me.

Like he had a secret.

Like maybe it was a secret we shared.

“So,” Gunner said, returning to his true nonperformance voice, “is this date happening tonight?”

“Yeah. That’s what I was thinking.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

Gunner hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I need a shower. Want to walk me to the bathhouse?”

“Ahh.” I ran my right hand through my sweaty hair as I tried to think of how to refuse him without having to explain why. “Actually, could you meet me in front of the lodge in an hour?”

He frowned. “Where are you showering?”

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