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“I’m going to cut firewood.”
“Shut up. Legit?”
I dry off my hands and follow him out the front door and down the porch steps.
“It’s what you do in the summer so it has time to dry by the time you need it in the winter.”
“Finally!” I cheer. “I get to witness an actual ranch activity.”
“You know anyone can cut firewood.”
I catch up and walk beside him. “That might be the case, but I’ve never seen it.”
We get to the shed, which is an old barn, and I look down at the mountainous pile of wood that is placed just outside.
“Where did all this wood come from?”
“The farmer I lease the land to, he cleared some area high up on the hill and brought this down to me.”
The wood is cut down into logs the width of the trees that were taken down.
“Could have cut it for you.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” His smile glistens in the early evening sun as he grabs an axe from the side of the shed. He places a log on a nearby tree trunk and lines the blade up with the center of the log.
His shoulders, broad and defined, move in harmony with the swing, the muscles rippling with each effortless motion. With every strike of the axe, there’s a controlled power, a raw masculinity.
His eyes are focused, a stormy intensity set against the backdrop of the serene wilderness. There’s a determined furrow in his brow. The way his jaw clenches, strong and resolute, like a man who’s in command of the job at hand.
“This would be even sexier if you took your shirt off.”
He smirks with the shake of his head. “They only do that in the movies.”
I take a seat on the four-wheeler that’s parked nearby. My sundress lifts as I cross my legs. His eyes move to the sliver of thigh that is accidentally exposed. I cover it up.
Rob clears his throat and goes back to his task. “Go on any dates lately?”
A deep sigh rumbles from my throat. “Not this weekend. I’m taking a hiatus. I’ve done it before. It’s been more common lately than not. I’m just over the dating scene.”
That and every man I meet, I compare to Rob. Externally, I feign interest. Internally, I keep thinking of how their eyes aren’t quite so chestnut, shoulders not as broad, voice not as deep, or expressions not mean enough. Yes, Rob has been sincere lately, but he still bears that overbearing, masculine hold about the world. Call it my toxic trait, but I can’tnotthink about Rob even if he’s not the man for me.
“What I’m looking for isn’t out there.”
“I forgot about your long list of what makes the perfect man.”
“The list changes, you know. I’m changing.”
“That much has changed in a few weeks?”
“I think so.”
“Care to share?”
“No.”
Our eyes meet, and it’s like a subtle connection, an unspoken question. I’ve never hid an answer from him. I’ve been vocal in my convictions, and yet here I am, too shy to speak for what I want.
“When I’m done with my revised list, you’ll be the first to know.” I give him a hand-pistol salute with a wink and a click of my tongue.
