Page 19 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

Then he steps back, arms crossed as he nods toward the freshly chopped logs stacked nearby. “Think you can handle splitting some wood?”

I arch a brow. “Do I look like I’ve ever chopped wood before?”

Holt smirks. “Nope. But I’d sure like to see you try.”

Wyatt, the bastard, chuckles behind me. “Go on, sweetheart. Show us what you got.”

He hands me an axe, his expression already dubious.

The axe feels foreign in my hands, its weight unbalanced and threatening. Holt stands a few paces away, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Just like chopping vegetables," he says with that easy smile. It's nothing like chopping vegetables.

I glare at them both before gripping the axe handle and positioning myself in front of the log. Holt mutters under his breath, probably already predicting disaster, but I ignore him. I raise the axe, swing down?—

And barely make a dent.

Hell, it’s a miracle I even managed to hit the damn thing.

Wyatt outright laughs, and Holt shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his beard like he’s debating whether to step in. I scowl. “That was a practice swing.”

“Uh-huh,” Wyatt says, still grinning. “Try again, City Girl.”

I do. And fail. Repeatedly.

Finally, Holt takes pity on me. He steps behind me, wrapping his much larger hands over mine on the handle. “Here,” he murmurs against my ear, sending a shiver straight down my spine. “Grip it like this. Loosen up your stance. Let the weight of the axe do the work.”

He guides me through the motion, and on the next swing, the log actually splits. Not completely, but I did it!

“Look at that,” Wyatt drawls. “Our girl’s a natural.”

My heart melts at the casual “our girl”, but I quickly shove the feeling away. This is just flirting. Meaningless, effortless flirting. They probably don’t even realize they’re doing it.

I refuse to be the fool who reads into it.

By the time I’m done embarrassing myself with the axe, Hank grumbles something about me needing to learn useful skills and hauls me inside to teach me how to start a proper fire.

“Damn city folk,” he mutters, handing me kindling and striking a match. “Can’t even light a fire without nearly burning the place down.”

I huff but follow his instructions, ignoring Wyatt and Holt as they hover in the background, clearly enjoying the show.

Hank’s hands are sure and steady as he arranges kindling, a contrast to my fumbling. "Always start small," he instructs, voice a low grumble. I watch his fingers work, nimble despite their size. There's an art to it, the way he builds a foundation for the flames.

"Strike the match, hold it here," Hank directs, and I mimic his movements, almost holding my breath. The match flares to life, and under his guidance, the kindling catches. A tiny victory blooms warm in my chest.

"Good," he mutters, almost begrudgingly. "Keep feeding it, slow and steady."

My gaze flickers to his face, catching the edges of approval before he turns away. It stirs an unfamiliar warmth inside me. I shove it down, refusing to let his approval mean anything.

By the end of the day, I’m sore, exhausted, and completely over manual labor. Muscles I didn’t even know I had, scream in protest as I flop onto the couch. But…I have to admit, there’s something satisfying about actually doing something real. Not for the cameras. Not for a headline.

Night wraps around the mountain in a blanket of quiet darkness, as snowflakes start their dance outside the window. Wyatt uncaps a bottle of whiskey with an ease that speaks of many such nights. He pours four glasses, handing one to me with a nod. "You earned this."

I take a tentative sip, welcoming the liquid warmth as it slides down my throat. The amber glow of the fire casts shadows on our faces, turning the room into a soft-edged world away from everything else.

The warmth of the fire combined with the slow burn of the alcohol leaves me feeling loose, relaxed in a way I haven’t been in years.

And, apparently, a little too comfortable.

Because at some point, the flirting escalates.

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