Cabin Fever by Elle Casey Page A

leg as he lifts another big log onto the stump.
    Maybe I should listen to him. Not that I agree that I can’t lift the axe, but there is a very high probability that I’d end up burying it in my shin if I tried to use it, and it is pretty damn cold out here. But I can’t just sit in the house and watch him work, especially when he’s going to be leaving soon and he hasn’t even had breakfast yet. I’ll feel too guilty about kicking him to the curb.
    “I’ll stack the wood, then.” I grab as many split logs as I can and walk back to the porch, placing them neatly in a row just outside the front door.
    “I wouldn’t put the stack so close to the entrance if it were me,” he says, still focused on his work. He swings the axe up behind him and then down onto the log, only getting it stuck halfway in. He jiggles the axe until it releases and then he takes another swing, successfully splitting the stubborn wood. His strength is impressive. I would have given up after the first swing, I’m sure of it. Even with all those clothes on, I can see the muscles it’s taking to do the job. A shiver passes through me, and I’m pretty sure the outside temperature isn’t the inspiration for it.
    “Why not?” I look at the door and my pile. It seems logical to me that we’d want to reach right outside the door and grab a piece of wood instead of walking across the porch and freezing to death for it.
    “Critters,” he says.
    I back away from my pile in a hurry. “Critters? What critters?”
    “Mice mostly. You don’t want them having such easy access to the front door.”
    “Yeah. Okay. Good plan.” I kick the wood a few times before I dare pick it up again. I don’t know what I’m afraid of, though. What mouse is going to hang out in a bunch of snowy logs? Not a very smart one. And if he does hang out there, surly he’ll be frozen solid, so it’s not like he’s going to run up my arm and into my jacket.
    I start a new wood pile at the corner of the cabin anyway, about fifteen feet from the front door, figuring I’d rather risk a cold set of buns rather than have a mouse making a nest in my art supplies or worse, under my bed.
    Jeremy and I work in silence for a good ten minutes or so before I decide I can’t take it anymore. I was never one for the silent treatment. I try to think of something that we both have in common to discuss, but pretty much come up empty.
    “So, when do you think you’ll be leaving?” I ask.
    He rests the axe against his leg and stares at me, his breath coming out in large puffs of white air. “You that anxious to get rid of me?”
    I feel bad for my choice in conversation openers and for thinking how much I need him to be away from here, especially because it’s not for the reasons he thinks. It’s not that I want him gone, it’s just that it’s better for both of us if he leaves before I do something stupid like flirt with him. It’s so very, very tempting when he’s standing out here in the snow with those work boots on, flushed from his hard labor, and wearing just that tight sweatshirt over those broad shoulders. And that scruffy beard… damn .
    I very nearly slap myself to get my mind back on track. Luckily fate intervenes and causes two logs to fall against each other and pinch my finger between them. I yank it out and breathe deeply a bunch of times in rapid succession, trying to will the pain away. It doesn’t work.
    “Holy mother of all angels … ow, shit that hurt.” I shake my finger and dance around a little, but stop when I notice Jeremy’s still waiting for an answer from me. Now I’m just cranky. When did this go so pear-shaped?
    “No, I’m not anxious to get rid of you.” Time to lie. “I just wanted to know how many of my logs will get split before you go.”
    He smiles and picks the axe up, eyeing his next chop. “Ah, I see. So you’re using me for my wood-splitting skills, eh?”
    “Something like that.” I walk over, happier now that we’re