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“Lie on your right side, scoot as much beneath the branches as you can.”
“You can’t be serious,” I mutter.
But I do as he says, giggling when Rigby bounds over and licks my face.
I start to pick up the saw, but my gloves make the process awkward, so I tug them off and shove them in my pocket.
A moment later my eyes widen in surprise when I feel a hard male body against my back. “Um, what are you doing?”
Instead of answering he reaches around me and maneuvers my hands as he wants them around the saw, then places the saw against the base of the trunk.
“Right there,” he says, his breath warm on my cheek.
For several horrifying, humiliating moments, I forget that this is Mark. I forget that it’s my best friend, the guy who’s seen me puke after a vicious case of food poisoning, the guy who I’ve sat side-by-side with, in my ugliest sweats, watching Lord of the Rings (all of them) while eating nothing but cold pizza and way too much popcorn.
Sure, I’ve hugged him a million times, given him a smacking smooch on the lips at midnight on New Year’s Eve, and fallen asleep on his shoulder once or twice over the years.
But for whatever reason, this moment right here feels different. I feel his strength, his sheer bigness. He’s hard to my soft, big to my petite. Because, yes, he makes me feel petite, and that’s nice.
I tell myself the awareness is just because he’s so warm against my back compared to the cold ground beneath me. It’s the contrast of the two sensations—that’s all.
Then his hand closes over mine, maneuvering the saw a little higher on the trunk, and I nearly whimper. He too has removed his gloves, and his big palms are warm and strong on the backs of my much smaller hands.
“There,” he murmurs, his voice just a tiny bit raspy. “It’s not quite as thick higher up the trunk.”
Annnnnnd now we’re talking about thickness. And trunks.
My mouth is entirely dry, and my body…not so cold.
Get it together, Byrne.
I shift slightly under the guise of getting a better angle at the tree trunk, and not because I’m aching to arch backward toward his trunk.
No. No. No no no no, you did not just have that thought.
“I got this,” I say. I’m talking about both the tree cutting and the control over my hormones, and I hope like hell he only assumes the first.
Gripping the saw firmly with both hands, I drag it back and forth across the trunk.
Nothing happens. I don’t think I so much as scratch the bark.
“Harder,” Mark mutters, a trifle impatiently.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. For many reasons.
And then I do exactly what I need to get my brain back to friend-zone status. I shoot my elbow backward, jabbing him hard in the ribs. “Help.”
He grunts, though I’m sure I hurt his six-pack not at all. Then he slips his other arm around me, closing both his hands over mine.
It’s only the fact that Rigby’s wriggled under the branches to lick us both unromantically on the ears that keeps me from doing something idiotic, like rolling into his embrace.
Then Rigby bounds off to chase a bird or something, and I’m right back to where I don’t want to be—physically aware of my best friend.
“You want slow and steady strokes, not short and jerky,” Mark says.
I bite back a moan.
