Page 10 of The Uncut Wood

Gunner took my wounded hand in both of his, uncurled my fingers, and gently peeled away the flesh-colored bandage I’d slapped on my palm.

He winced at the sight of the raw, red flesh. “That’s gotta hurt.”

I shook my head and grunted something noncommittal. I couldn’t manage any words. I was too distracted by the awareness of his hands touching mine. We’d clasped hands, shook hands, exchanged high fives, and he’d held my hand on the hike, but we’d never studied one another’s hands like this. I secretly admired his hands all the time: the size of them; the coarse ginger hair on the back of his knuckles; the thick, rounded fingertips and perfectly groomed nails. I often marveled at the nail polish he sometimes wore, trying to decide if it bugged me or turned me on. Today his nails were bare with ridges that caught the light.

When he produced a pair of tiny scissors, I instinctively started to squirm away, but his fingers pressed my hand against my knee. “Hold still.”

While he carefully trimmed away the ragged edges of the remaining callused skin, I was able to study his chocolate-brown eyes up close. With the gunky black liner scrubbed away, each individual lash was a different color: auburn, gold, the palest blond. Some appeared translucent.

His beard was similarly varied, although with darker shades of copper and rust-red. His full lower lip was chapped.

His mohawk was unbraided, his shoulder-length red hair now parted carelessly down the middle and tucked behind his ears.

I could feel his breath whispering against my palm.

Gunner Ross was holding my hand again.

He released it to open a tube of salve. “Mmm. Nice, huh?” The scent of peppermint and eucalyptus reached my nostrils.

“Isn’t that gonna burn?”

“Worse than alcohol? No. It’s moisturizing. All-natural ingredients. Lanolin, beeswax, aloe, essential oils. It’ll help protect against infection and stimulate cell regrowth. This shit is killer.”

“They should hire you to do an infomercial.”

His lips curled up in a soft smile, but he remained focused on his task.

“Good thing it’s not my right hand, huh?”

His nostrils flared. “Plenty of things you can do without hands,” he murmured. He wound a roll of gauze around it and carefully taped it closed. “Test that out.”

I flexed my fingers a few times. The salve had a faintly pleasant numbing effect. “Do up the other one and I’ll look like a boxer.” I made a fist and planted my knuckles against the line of his cheek bone in an affectionate, slow-motion punch.

He unlocked his knees, stood with a groan, and grinned down at me, hair falling around his face. His zipper was right at my eye level, and I clenched my teeth against the impulse to lean forward, open my mouth, and release a hot breath against the denim surrounding the bulge of his crotch.

He took my wrists and hauled me to my feet.

I allowed the lantern to hang low at my side casting our faces in shadows. The darkness covered my nervousness at standing this close to him. Our breaths seemed embarrassingly loud. I felt like I should kiss him, but I kept thinking about how he didn’t like to kiss anybody. All I had to do was lean forward a few inches… but he was looking at my eyes, not my mouth, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Nothing was scarier to me than the thought of Gunner rejecting my kiss.

I chickened out.

He swallowed loudly, took a deep breath, and stepped back. “Please tell me there’s booze in the massive cooler I schlepped all the way up here.”

“God, I hope so.” I sounded too eager for the moment to end, but it was excruciating to be this close and not have the balls to make a real move. A little liquid courage would be a lifeline. “Bailey stocked the cooler. I left it up to him to choose for us.”

To our shared joy there was a six-pack of beer—Stella Artois, not the cheap shit they sold at the Cubby Hole—four canned Cokes, most of a bottle of Jim Beam, and a few liters of water.

“Well, that oughta be enough, right?” I dug a multi-tool out of my pocket.

“Enough to get you drunk and make your dreams come true.” Gunner smirked.

“My dreams?” I protested, like this was just our normal, everyday razzing of each other, but in my mind I was silently squealing.

Gunner shrugged, but he couldn’t entirely suppress a smile. “It was your wager.”

We both shyly retreated from his blatant suggestion. I was equal parts relieved we were on the same page and wrecked with anticipation—this was happening—but neither of us had eaten since lunch. After the physical exertion of the competition and the hike, I was feeling a bit trembly.

I opened our beers while Gunner unpacked plastic tubs of cold roasted chicken, pasta salad, and a slab of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.