No meetings to discuss the feasibility of cutting the tree. No PowerPoints about optimal tree-cutting strategies.
Just me, the ax, and wood that either yields or doesn’t.
I pull the ax free and position for another strike. The muscles in my back stretch pleasantly, reminding me I’ve been neglecting my usual workout routine, too many late nights at the officestaring at spreadsheets, too many mornings rushing out without hitting the gym.
“Look at that sexy beast!” Finn exclaims.
He’s perched on a stump, clutching a thermos of what I’m guessing is hot chocolate. He’s finally shed at least three of his layers, down to a merely ridiculous five or six. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and his eyes sparkle with joy.
I grunt in response and swing again.
“Very articulate,” he calls. “I’m swooning.”
I hide my smile by ducking my head. Three years together, and he still makes my heart swell with these small moments of playfulness. The city hasn’t changed that, at least.
“Don’t you have trees to supervise?” I ask, wiping sweat from my forehead with my sleeve.
“I am supervising. Very thoroughly. Ten out of ten for form, by the way. Your gluteal muscles are particularly engaged in this activity.”
I roll my eyes and get back to work.
Finn attempted to help earlier; I’ll give him credit for that.
He managed about fifteen minutes of actual labor before declaring himself “physically incapable of continued lumberjacking” and collapsing dramatically onto the nearest stump.
Now he’s appointed himself official morale officer, which apparently involves making commentary about my ass and occasionally passing out snacks and coffee.
“Break?” Everett approaches, offering me a bottle of water. His face is flushed from exertion, blond hair dark with sweat at the temples.
Unlike Finn, Everett works as hard as I do, matching me swing for swing.
I nod and take the bottle, draining half in one go. The water is cold enough to hurt my teeth, but it feels good as it washes down my parched throat.
“How many more of these?” I ask, knowing this is just day one. My shoulders already ache, a sign that tomorrow will be worse.
Everett winces, squinting at the forest around us. “Mayor’s got a lottery system going, staggering the crowds over the next two weeks. Thank God. Otherwise, we’d have the entire valley descending at once.”
“Smart,” I say, rolling my shoulders to loosen them.
Snowflake Valley takes Christmas seriously.
I remember from growing up here that the town practically shuts down if the holiday lights aren’t perfectly synchronized.
“At least the physical labor’s good,” I say, glancing down at my body. “Won’t have to worry about holiday weight gain.”
Everett laughs, the sound carrying across the clearing. “When did you become so vain?”
“City living,” I say with a shrug.
It’s more than that, though. The city never felt right to me. Too crowded, too loud, too many people packed into spaces that were never meant to hold that many bodies. I went for the job, stayed for Finn. If it weren’t for him, I’d have been back in Snowflake Valley years ago.
Finn walks by, and I pull him close with one arm, enjoying the way he automatically leans into me despite his protests about my sweatiness. It’s these small, unconscious moments that make it all worth it.
“You’re disgusting,” he complains, but makes no move to pull away. “I can literally see steam rising off you.”
“You love it,” I murmur into his hair.
“I tolerate it because you’re pretty,” he counters, but his hand comes up to rest on my chest, just over my heart.