Page 40 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

My whole life, I’d built myself around control. Around order. Around being the guy who kept his head when everything else went to shit.

I didn’t make impulsive decisions. I didn’t chase chaos. I handled things quietly, efficiently, and without making it anyone else’s problem.

But Riley Brooks?

She was a goddamn walking contradiction. All chaos and sharp wit, soft skin and stubborn eyes. And ever since she showed up, she’d been screwing with the rhythm of this house, and worse, with my head.

I didn’t know what pissed me off more: the fact that she was here, disrupting everything, or the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

And seeing her with Asher… yeah, that sure as hell didn’t help.

Asher never thought before he acted. He wanted something, he went for it. No hesitation, no second-guessing. I’d spent half my life cleaning up the fallout of that kind of thinking.

But Riley, she wasn’t his to take.

Not that she was mine. At least, that was what I kept telling myself.

So I did what I always did. I went out to work.

Split enough wood to heat the cabin for the next month. Let the ache settle in my shoulders and the cold bite through the fog in my head.

But no amount of work could shake the picture of her, bare legs, bare face, that damn mouth, and Asher looking at her like she was already his.

And then she came outside like nothing had happened and surprised the hell out of me.

“I want to help,” she said, eyes locked on mine like she was daring me to laugh at her.

I didn’t. Couldn’t.

I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was the way she said it, like proving herself meant more than pride. Or maybe I wanted to see what she’d do when the world didn’t play to her strengths.

So I handed her an axe.

Then, I stood across from her in the snow, arms crossed, watching as she tried and failed to split her first log. She had no idea what she was doing. Her grip was wrong, stance off, the swing awkward as hell.

The blade hit the wood and bounced sideways. She let out a frustrated sound and shook her arms out.

“Damn it.”

“You’re holding it too tight,” I said, stepping in before she hurt herself.

She turned to glare at me. “Isn’t that kind of the point? Grip it, swing it, hope for the best?”

I fought a smile. “You’re choking up on it too much. Loosen your grip. Let the axe do the work.”

She blew out a breath. “Show me, then.”

I hesitated, only for a second. Getting too close to Riley was a bad idea. I already knew that. But I stepped in anyway, took the axe from her, and set my boots on either side of the stump.

“One clean motion,” I said. I raised the axe and brought it down in one swing. The log split with a satisfying crack.

When I glanced back, she was staring. Lips parted. Cheeks pink from the cold.

“That’s not fair,” she muttered. “You’ve got lumberjack in your DNA.”

I held the axe out. “Try again.”

She did. And failed. Again.

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