Page 132 of When It's Us
She worries her lip. “Maybe try calling him?”
I look down at the unanswered texts. I get that this may be typical behavior for Hutch. And before the last few weeks I would have probably thought the same. And sure, Wren knows we’ve been hooking up on some level, but she doesn’t know the extent of it. She doesn’t know all the things we’ve shared, confessed to each other. Something about how he was with me last night in his truck and him not showing today doesn’t sit right.
“Can you watch the boys for me for an hour or so?”
She nods. “Of course.” Then her gaze flicks to the hallway. “What do you want me to tell everyone?”
“Shit,” I say, pressing my thumb and finger into the corners of my eyes. “I don’t know.”
“You’re really worried about him, aren’t you?”
I nod.
“Then go. I’ll think of something,” Wren says, and I let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, babe.”
I needed to be careful.
Hutch broke through my defenses without even trying—sure, it started with the way he looked at me, the way that damn bulge behind his zipper made me forget how to breathe. But it wasn’t just that.
It was the way he showed up. For me. For my boys. How he listened like every word I said mattered. How he challenged me, saw through me, and still stayed.
He was everything I never knew I needed. And with every minute we spent together, he might tear down the walls I’ve spent years building around my heart if I wasn't careful.
When I climb out of the car, the crack of an axe splitting wood echoes sharply through the clearing. There’s a gallon of milk and four beers on the hood of his truck.
My brow pulling tight, I follow the sound past the truck and the Vanagon to the clearing behind the shop.
Silhouetted against the dusk of the setting sun is Hutch, dressed in a light blue T-shirt and jeans, hair tangled and loose around his shoulders.
Not sick then, if the way he’s swinging that axe like the wood he’s splitting did something to offend him.
The evening is chilly, so I pull my sweater closed around me and head in his direction.
“Hey,” I call out.
He doesn’t stop.
Another swing. Crack. Another thud. Sweat plasters his shirt to his chest, and as I get closer, a smear of red on his right hand catches my eye.
What the hell happened?
The normally neat wood pile is a disaster: splinters everywhere, half-split logs. The chopping stump’s got axe marks all over it, like he’s missed repeatedly.
Is he…drunkand splitting wood?
I move closer, ten feet away now. Way too close for the determined and almost robotic way he brings down the axe, then bends for another piece of wood, setting it into place.
I swallow when I take in his hands, fully blistered and from what I can tell, bleeding in at least one spot.
“Hutch,” I say louder, over the rhythm of the axe and his labored breathing. “Your hands.”
That does it. His eyes lift, and the axe falters for a second before he lands one last swing.
“Baby,” I whisper, “what are you doing?”
His eyes are dark, unfocused. His chest rises and falls, labored.
“Keeping busy,” he mutters.
