Page 25 of Holiday Power Play

"You're a real charmer, you know that, Lana MacDonald." I line up a piece of wood and pull the axe over my head.

"Too high," she observes. I'm about to slam it down, but her remark makes me pause.

"What?"

"Your grip. It need to be a little lower," she says, watching me.

I move my hand on the grip and look at her for approval.

"Perfect. Now, instead of aiming for the wood on the trunk, aim for the one in your pants, and don't ever let me see that again."

It takes me a second to register what she's saying but when I do I turn to look at her. "Wait… is my biggest anti-fan standing in sub-zero weather and thinking about my wood?" I can't even try to hide the smile.

Lana noticed. And not only did she notice. She's still thinking about it. Which makes me… an idiot. Have I learned nothing? Just because a woman says something doesn't mean it has the same meaning to me as it does to her.

"Do you always get hard during tickle fights?" she cocks her head at me.

"Do you want to test your theory?"

I slam the axe down onto the wood. It doesn't quite snap in two. I try again. Still no luck.

Okay, clearly I'm not a lumberjack. Third times a charm and when it finally cracks open for me, I turn to look at Lana who's laughing to herself and shaking her head.

"That the best you can do, stud?"

I shoot her a glare. "You haven't seen nothing yet."

I toss the wood into the small pile we're accumulating and grab another piece to chop.

This time, instead of coaching me from afar, Lana closes the distance between us and puts her hands over mine on the axe, helping me to adjust my hold.

"Like that," she instructs into my ear. Her voice is low and raspy, and it does something to me, despite the ridiculously cold weather.

She takes a step back, and this time, in one fell swoop, I'm able to split the wood in two.

I huff out a laugh. "You're a good coach."

"It's kind of what I do, Sincaid."

She adds the wood to the growing pile, lines up another and takes the axe back. Destroying two more pieces of wood.

"Where'd you learn to be a lumberjack?" I ask, grabbing some of the wood into my arms.

"My dad," she says, slamming the axe onto the trunk and joining me in picking up the pieces.

I watch her as she moves. Strong, solid movements. She's the kind of woman that seems to be confident in anything that she does.

And I find that to be really fucking hot.

"Didn't realize professional lumberjacks still existed."

"They mostly use equipment and chainsaws now, but growing up our dad ran a Christmas tree farm out near Ottawa."

I pause what I'm doing.

"A Christmas tree farm?" I ask, probably a little too incredulously.

"Yes," she says eyeing me. "Why?"

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