Bonus Scene: No Axe To Grind - Ashwood Falls Book 1

Bonus Scene - Tessa

           The living room looks like a craft store and a lumberyard had a very enthusiastic baby. There’s a glittery raccoon garland draped across the mantle, a halo of sawdust freckling the rug, and—because apparently I contain multitudes—a galaxy of rainbow sprinkles embedded in the floorboards like tiny edible stars. Somewhere in the chaos sits a batch of cooling cupcakes, maple-cinnamon buttercream, and somewhere else sits a half-finished cedar raccoon I carved this morning who, frankly, has an attitude problem. His little wooden mask is smug. He knows what he did.

     “What you did,” I inform him, my hands on my hips, “was hip-check my mixing bowl off the counter with your smug little snout.”

     He doesn’t respond on account of being wood, but I swear his carved eyebrows are judgmental.

     I’m in one of Gage’s flannels with the sleeves rolled up, hardly buttoned, fuzzy socks with raccoon faces, and shorts that keep trying to disappear up my ass. I sweep sawdust into a neat pile, then immediately knock my elbow into an open jar of silver sprinkles. They waterfall onto the pile like fairy hail.

     Behind me, a warm voice, low, amused, a little sinful, says, “You’re the only woman alive who thinks sprinkles belong next to power tools.”

I turn. Leaning in the doorway like sin in flannel, Gage's arms are crossed, forearms doing forearm things, mouth tilted at one corner, eyes full of trouble and looking like home. His hair is a little messy, which is illegal in all fifty states, by the way. He scans the room, takes in the raccoon bunting, the cupcake army, the sawdust confetti. He looks like a man who woke up in a snow globe and stayed.

     “Correction,” I say, pointing my broom at him like a scepter. “Strategic sprinkles. It’s called a vibe, and you'd do well to respect the vibe.”

     He nods, solemn, because he understands me now. “Right. A vibe. The raccoon court approves.”

     I set the broom aside, squinting at him. “If you mock my new ‘Trash Panda & Timber’ side hustle again, I will frost your beard. Again.”

     His grin deepens. “You’re trouble.”

     “Absolutely,” I say with a wink. “The right kind.”

     The flirting escalates. Gage brushes flour from my cheek with his thumb and mutters something low about “keeping my sticky fingers off his tools.”

     I lick frosting off my finger slowly, holding eye contact. He groans. The switch flips.

     He lifts me onto the kitchen counter in one smooth motion, knocking over a bag of powdered sugar. Neither of us cares. The granite is cool against my thighs; his hands are hot, rough, sure as they slide up to anchor me. The kiss starts slowly and then catches fire, like we’ve been waiting all day for this moment.

     I fist his shirt, pulling him closer. His beard scrapes my chin, then lower down my chest to my abdomen, and the contrast makes me gasp. His hand slips lower, between my thighs, touching me at my core in a way that makes my whole-body jerk toward him with need. 

     I reach for his belt, tugging impatiently until the buckle gives, and free his cock from his jeans. The weight and heat of him fills my palm as I stroke him, my rhythm faltering each time his fingers circle and press at my core, drawing moans. The give and take winds us tighter, breath stuttering as we match each other, pleasure feeding pleasure. 

     Vanilla frosting and cedar smoke wrap around us, a sugar-and-forest perfume that feels indecent. He growls my name when I roll my hips.

     His answer to my touch is another kiss that claims everything. Powdered sugar dusts our arms; his groan rumbles between us. His hips press forward, sliding against me as his hand moves more insistently at my core. My grip tightens on him, pumping him slowly, then faster, and the world narrows to granite, heat, the rough-smooth slide of his jeans at my thighs and the slick urgency between us. 

     My flannel top slips open; he murmurs something sinful about how I look in his clothes. His hand roams over the curve of my breast before sliding lower again, teasing me until my hips buck into his touch. I tug him closer, freeing him from the last of his jeans, and the hot, heavy press of him against my bare skin makes me arch hard, every nerve tuned to now.

     “Tell me again I’m yours,” I gasp when he enters me.

     “Mine,” he says, voice raw. “Always.”

     The rhythm builds hot and relentless, sweet as frosting and raw as hunger, until I’m crying his name and he answers with mine. It’s messy and breathless and perfect, the kind of love-making that feels like claiming and promising all at once. His thrusts drive me higher until the edge rushes up to meet me. Release crashes through, and I shatter with a cry, dragging him over with me into the same breathless oblivion.

     Afterward, we collapse against the counter, breathless and sticky with sugar. Frosting smears across his chest like a badge of honor. He looks at me, grinning and wrecked and perfect.

     “If this is what small-town mountain life looks like,” I pant, “I’m never leaving.”

     “Good,” he says, kissing my temple. “Because I wasn’t gonna let you.”

Snow drifts outside, softening the night as I stand at the window in his shirt, watching the flakes fall. He comes up behind me, arms wrapping around, chin settling on my shoulder.

     “I signed us up for the summer solstice carving festival,” I say.

     He groans dramatically. “Do I have to wear a matching apron? I look stupid in it.”

     “Yes,” I say, laughing. “This time it’ll have a raccoon with a chisel. Trash Panda & Timber, baby.”

     He kisses the back of my neck. “Did you ever think we’d get here?”

     “Not in a million years,” I admit. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.”

     "Good. Me either." He kisses my neck again.

     “You sure you can handle this kind of chaos?” I tease.

     He smiles against my skin. “You? Sunshine, you’re the only chaos I want.”