Page 41 of Seale the Deal

I pull the quad out of the garage, its tires crunching over the gravel before I load it with the essentials: a jerry can of gas, the chainsaw, and the small trailer I use for hauling firewood. It’s cool this morning, and the air carries the clean, woodsy bite of Alaskan fall. I double-check the chainsaw bar oil and look up—

And there she is.

Wrenley’s descending the front steps wearing a pair of snug jeans and my hoodie, the one I gave her when we walked around the town. The sleeves hang a little past her wrists, and her wild, gorgeous curls are pulled back, giving me a clear view of that radiant face. It’s bare, fresh, and so damn arresting it stops me mid-breath.

I hope you’re okay with me wearing this, she says, tugging at the sleeve with a little half shrug, like it’s something to apologize for.

I shake my head, doing my best to act like I’m not five seconds from tossing her over my shoulder, taking her upstairs, and showing her exactly what happens when a woman looks that good in my clothes.

Not at all, I say, doing my best to keep my voice even.

She gives me a sheepish smile, eyes twinkling like she knows what she’s doing to me. I try not to stare because, once again, I’m imagining all the ways I’d peel that hoodie off her and replace it with my hands.

Instead, I gesture to the quad. Ready?

She nods, and I offer her my hand to climb on. The second her fingers slide into mine, there’s that warm jolt again, making me wonder if it’s normal that touching her body feels familiar despite not really knowing her.

Once Wrenley is settled, I climb onto the front of the quad. I glance back to see her gripping the rear rack, trying to keep a respectable distance. I reach behind me, take her wrists gently, and bring her arms around my waist. For safety.

Truth is, I want her close. I want her where I can feel her heartbeat against my back and her thighs pressed tight to mine.

The quad rumbles to life beneath us, and we ease onto the trail. The forest swallows us quickly, the deep green of spruce broken up by bursts of gold, amber, and the occasional splash of crimson. Wrenley clings tighter when the trail dips, and I have to bite back a grin. Most women around here are used to this. Not her. I like being the one to show her.

By the time we reach my favourite deadfall spot, I don’t want to shut off the engine. Her arms slide away as we climb off, and the absence of her touch settles like a chill against my skin.

While I check the chain tension and top off the fuel, Wrenley explores, pausing to admire trees, mushrooms, and a squirrel she narrates a little monologue for. Her boots crunch over the leaves, and I catch myself watching her more than I’m watching my tools. Her boots are absolutely useless in the bush. They’ve been fine for walking around town and grabbing coffee with Remi, but she’s going to need something better for future outings like this one.

What? she asks, catching me staring.

Nothing, I mutter.

But mentally, I add get Wrenley proper hiking boots to my list of to-dos. No wife of mine, even if she’s fake, is going to risk breaking an ankle.

When I’m satisfied everything is ready, I straighten and walk toward her. Okay, I say. Let’s find our tree.

She gives me a look like I just asked her to solve a quadratic equation. Aren’t these all trees?

I grin. Yeah. But we’re not cutting down just any tree. See how those ones are still green at the top? I point. That means they’re alive. We want ones already down or long dead. They’re dried and seasoned just right. Easier to burn and safer for the chimney. Not to mention, it helps with forest fires. The less dead wood there is, the less fuel.

She blinks. Wait. You mean you don’t just chop anything and call it firewood?

Not unless you want your flue clogged and a chimney fire.

She narrows her eyes. The word flue has always sounded like an obscure sex toy to me.

I bark out a laugh just as she slaps a hand over her mouth. Her eyes go wide with embarrassment, but mine are tearing up from how hard I’m grinning.

I didn’t mean to say that out loud, she mumbles.

I’m glad you did, I say, pressing a gentle hand to the small of her back to guide her toward a cluster of downed spruce. It’s been a long time since I had this much fun cutting wood.

She doesn’t flinch under my hand or pull away. And something about that trust makes me feel warm.

We get to work; I fell the trees and cut them into logs while she hauls. And every time she passes me with a new log in her arms, I take too long watching her walk away.

The trailer’s almost full, she calls, chest rising and falling heavier from the effort. She crosses her arms, and the way my hoodie hugs her chest when she does it? I have to subtly adjust my stance.

You said I could try, she says, nodding toward the chainsaw.