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Caleb
Theaxeswingsdown through the air and lands with a satisfying thunk.
Tug, lift, swing and thunk. It hits the stump again, splitting the foot-long block of wood cleanly in two. Each half falls neatly onto the piles on either side of the stump.
Again, I reset a fresh block on the old oak stump, swing, and thunk.
It’s probably too wet for chopping wood. The blocks are kept under cover and protected from the majority of the rain but even the air is humid. The logs split better when dry all the way through and I’ve already been forced to abandon a few to the forest floor where they’ve splintered into shards of mulch.
But I’m running out of ideas.
I’ve had enough of cold showers. I’m tired of staring at the four walls of my office like they hold the secrets to the universe. I’m sick of feeling like a stranger in my own home.
And what’s worse is, I’m fed up with feeling guilty for making Lizzie feel like a stranger in my home.
I’m not the sharpest tool in the box when it comes to women, but I can at least recognize when one is feeling unwelcome. And Lizzie is showing all the signs. She barely talks to me on the drives to and from town, she’s given up trying to insist on making dinner, and she’s not once put on that music she likes or made more than a sound since that evening.
I rub a hand down my face, flick the sweat from my palm, and resettle my grip on the shaft of the axe.
I can’t blame Lizzie for her being distant. Especially when distance is exactly what I’ve been going for all week. But I’d not anticipated how it would make me feel to see her sneaking around the house like she’s afraid to make a noise. All I’d wanted to do was give her space.
Kind of too little too late, don’t you think?
I turn my self-hatred to the task at hand and throw my weight into the next swing. I slice down so hard that one half of the split block catapults ten feet into the trees and I’m forced to go rescue it from the undergrowth. I get a good sting on my wrist from a small patch of nettles.
Serves me right.
As did the cold showers. And the isolation. And every other form of self-imposed punishment I had put myself through this week. It had been an attempt to force my head back into a decent state of mind.
Because there is no way that a decent man would have done what I’d been thinking of doing that evening. After dinner, Lizzie and I had been sitting on the couch and all she’d been looking for was a little human connection and conversation.
I can picture her now, even as I line up another block of firewood. Wet hair, no make-up, clothes minimal and cotton soft. If that doesn’t spell out a woman who feels comfortable in her environment, I don’t know what does. Comfortable and safe.
And then I’d ruined that trust and that comfort and reached out to touch her.
For the rest of that evening and long into the night, my brain tried to convince me that I’d done nothing wrong. I had only touched her cheek.
But I know better. I know exactly where I had wanted that touch to lead. I know what I’d been thinking on that couch. How I had leaned in toward her, how I’d wanted to mirror my touch on the other side of her face, pull her towards me and claim her mouth with my own.
I’d already decided, there on the couch, just what she would taste like. She’d be soft as butter, sweet as peaches… Hot as lava.
I throw down the axe again. Thunk. And again. Thunk.
Ironically, the only thing stopping me had been her damn beauty. Right there, makeup-less and free of all the other crap women thought they needed to be attractive, Lizzie had been so stunning, so unimaginably gorgeous that instead of kissing her I’d stopped to take in her beauty. I’d gorged myself, not on her lips but on her features, absorbing them with my eyes and hungering for what they might feel like. The anticipation had been part of the draw.
Which is why, by the time I’d moved in for a kiss that I’d had no right to take, I’d been hard as a damn lead pipe.
It had been the accidental squashing of my dick, and the shooting discomfort it had caused, that knocked me out of the moment. It had shot through me like a lightning bolt of reason; a frigid zap of sense. I’d gotten up and away from her as quickly as I could.
What Lizzie had thought of me—still thinks of me—I can only guess. And cringe.
Here she is, a stranger to town, a lone woman, who has trusted her care and the shelter over her head to me and I’m making a move on her.
Smooth, Walker. Real smooth.
It’s no wonder Lizzie has been spending most of her nights out on the front porch. Even with me closeted away in the office, she’s obviously nervous about being alone in the house with me and has taken to bundling up in a blanket on the rocking chair out front. I’ve heard the boards of the porch creaking as she rocks.
Which is why I’ve decided to try a different tactic.
