Page 11 of Challenged By the Mountain Man

I set the soup down and move to the door, cracking it open just enough to peer out. The clearing between the trees is visible from here, and the fading sunlight cuts through the pines in long golden shafts that make everything look softer than it is.

And there, in the middle of it, is Griffin. Shirtless. Chopping wood. I should look away. I absolutely should close the door and go back to making soup and mind my own business.

I don't.

Because… Fuck!

He's massive. I knew that already. But seeing him like this, without the flannel hiding the sheer size of him, is something else entirely. His shoulders are impossibly broad, muscles shifting under tanned skin with every swing of the axe. His back is a map of scars. some thin and pale, some darker, some that look like they were burned into him. There's a particularly vicious one that runs from his shoulder blade down to his ribs, twisting as he moves.

He brings the axe down, and the log splits clean in two. He doesn't pause. Just sets up another piece, lifts the axe, and brings it down again.

*THUNK.*

He's surely done this a thousand times and could do it a thousand more without thinking.

There's a tattoo on his left bicep, something dark and military-looking that I can't make out from this distance. Sweat gleams on his skin despite the cold, catching the last of the sunlight.

Bear is lying a few feet away, watching with the kind of lazy contentment that suggests this is a regular occurrence.

I should go back inside. I should definitely go back inside.

Instead, I step out onto the porch and start walking toward him.

He doesn't notice me at first, or if he does, he doesn't acknowledge it. He just keeps swinging the axe, splitting log after log with the kind of precision that comes from years of practice. I stop at the edge of the clearing, suddenly unsure. This was stupid. I don't even know why I came over here. What am I going to say? *Hey, I heard you chopping wood and thought I'd come watch?*

Bear notices me before Griffin does. The dog lifts his head, tail thumping once against the ground, and that's when Griffin finally pauses. He turns, axe still in hand, and his eyes lock on mine.

For a long moment, neither of us says anything. He's breathing hard. Not winded, just the steady rhythm of someone who's been working, and there's a sheen of sweat across his chest and shoulders. The scars are even more visible up close. Burn scars on his right shoulder and side. What looks like shrapnel marks scattered across his ribs. The long, jagged line down his back that I saw from the cabin.

He doesn't try to hide them. Doesn't reach for the shirt that's draped over a nearby stump. He just stands there, looking at me like he's waiting for me to explain myself.

"I heard the noise," I say finally, and my voice comes out steadier than I expected.

"Yeah." His response is flat, unreadable.

"I thought—" I stop, trying to find the right words. "I don't know what I thought."

"Thought it was a bear?" he asks, and there's the faintest edge of something that might be humor in his tone.

"Maybe."

"It's not."

"I can see that."

We stare at each other for another beat, and I can’t help but notice how close we are, how much space he takes up even when he's standing still. There's something about him that feels contained, like all that size and strength is held in check by sheer force of will.

"You need something?" he asks.

I should say no. I should turn around and walk back to my cabin and let this man chop his wood in peace. But I don't.

"I wanted to thank you," I say instead, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "For the generator."

"You already did."

"No, I demanded to know what you wanted for it. That's not the same thing."

He sets the axe down, leaning it against the chopping block, and wipes his hands on his jeans. The movement makes the muscles in his forearms flex, and I try very hard not to notice it.