“Fuck off,” he said with a laugh before hauling the axe back for another attempt.
I stepped behind the camera, adjusting the frame to capture his increasingly confident swings. Despite the ridiculous contrast of his luxury outfit against the rugged activity, he looked good. Natural, even. The determination on his face, the way his body had quickly adapted to the rhythm of the work—it made for compelling footage.
After about ten minutes of steady chopping, sweat glistened on his forehead despite the cold. He’d removed his camel coat andscarf, working in just the cream sweater that hugged his torso like a second skin. I tried not to notice how the physical exertion had brought a flush to his cheeks or how his hair had fallen across his forehead in a way that was frustratingly attractive.
“How much longer?” he asked, pausing to catch his breath. “This tree is tougher than it looks.”
“Welcome to real work,” I teased. “Not everything can be accomplished in a ninety-second clip.”
He shot me a look. “I’ll have you know I’ve done plenty of hard work in my life.”
“Lifting a pitcher of margaritas on a yacht doesn’t count.”
Adrian’s flushed cheeks darkened, which, of course, only made him more attractive. “Neither does being an ass, yet here you are, excelling at it.”
I grinned, enjoying our back-and-forth more than I should. “Keep chopping, city boy. You’re about halfway.”
Adrian rolled his shoulders and resumed his attack on the tree with renewed vigor. I captured his efforts on camera, occasionally offering guidance on his technique. The snow continued to fall more heavily around us, the light taking on that peculiar quality that comes before a serious storm.
“I’m creating a notch on this side,” Adrian said, gesturing to the wedge he’d cut. “Don’t we need to chop from the other side, too?”
I raised an eyebrow, impressed. “You’ve been watching lumberjack videos on YouTube.”
“I prepare for my shoots,” he replied with dignity. “Even the ones with emergency-substitute grumpy photographers.”
“You’re right,” I admitted, walking over to inspect his work. “Cut a bit higher on the opposite side, and the tree will fall in this direction.” I pointed away from where we were standing.
He nodded and moved to the other side of the trunk. Histechnique had improved considerably, each swing now landing with purpose. I found myself watching his movements rather than focusing on the camera—the flex of muscle beneath that ridiculously expensive sweater, the determination in his expression, the competence he’d developed in just minutes.
The tree began to creak ominously after several more powerful blows. Adrian paused, looking to me for guidance.
“A few more should do it,” I advised. “But be ready to move when it starts to go.”
He nodded, bracing himself for the final cuts. The tree swayed slightly with each impact, the cracking sounds growing louder. Adrian’s face was a study in concentration, completely focused on the task.
“It’s going!” I called out as the massive spruce began to tilt.
But something was wrong. Instead of falling in the direction we’d planned, the tree was leaning toward Adrian. He was still too close, still focused on his chopping, not realizing the danger.
“Adrian, move!” I shouted, already lunging toward him.
His head snapped up, eyes widening as he saw the tree tipping. He froze for a split second too long, and I didn’t hesitate—I dove forward, tackling him around the waist and sending us both tumbling into the deep snow several feet away.
The tree crashed down with a thunderous sound, branches brushing my back as we rolled clear of its path. When we finally stopped moving, I found myself on top of Adrian, my hands braced in the snow on either side of his head, our faces inches apart.
Time seemed to stop. Snowflakes fell around us in silent slow motion as we stared at each other, breathing hard. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, lips parted slightly in surprise. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I couldn’t tell if it was from theadrenaline of the near miss or from the sudden, overwhelming proximity of him beneath me.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice a little shaky and his breath forming a small cloud between us. “That’s not how Hallmark movies portray this shit. Homicide by Christmas tree.”
“The tree wasn’t going to kill you,” I replied, my voice rougher than I intended. “Maybe just maim you a little.”
He laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine where our bodies pressed together. “You can’t let me have my dramatic moment, can you?”
I should have moved. Should have rolled off him, made a joke, maintained the professional distance I’d been so determined to keep. But I couldn’t seem to make my body cooperate. His eyes held mine, something unspoken passing between us as the snow continued to fall, insulating us in our own private world.
Our bodies were pressed together, knees to chest—and every delicious thing in between—and I felt the warm, solid muscle of him against me.
Adrian’s gaze dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second, and my breath caught. The air between us felt charged, electric. Without conscious thought, I found myself leaning even closer, drawn by some invisible force I didn’t want to name.
