"It's still warm," I blurt out. "Well, warmish. It was warm when I left."
He nods. Looks down at the lasagna like he's not sure what to do with it.
"You're supposed to say thank you now," I say.
His eyes flick up to mine. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Another pause. Ridge has followed me up onto the porch and is now sitting between us, looking back and forth like he's watching a tennis match.
"Is that it?" Eli asks.
"Is what it?"
"Is that all you came here for?"
I should say yes. I should take my win and leave before I embarrass myself further. But instead I hear myself say, "What were you doing?"
"What?"
"Before I showed up. What were you doing?"
He looks at me like I've asked him to explain calculus. "Chopping wood."
"Can I watch?"
"Why?"
"Because I've never seen anyone chop wood before. And I'm curious."
"No," he says.
"Why not?"
"Because you need to leave."
"I will," I say. "In a minute. Come on. Just one log. Let me see."
He stares at me for a long, long moment. I can see him calculating, weighing, trying to figure out if agreeing will get me to leave faster than arguing.
"One log," he says finally.
"One log," I agree.
He sets the lasagna down on a small table by the door, picks up the axe, and walks down the porch steps toward a chopping block that's surrounded by split wood. I follow, Ridge trotting along beside me, and I'm trying very hard not to stare at the way his back muscles move under his skin.
I'm failing spectacularly.
Eli grabs a log from the pile and sets it on the block. Then he steps back, adjusts his grip on the axe, and swings. The muscles in his shoulders and back flex and bunch with the motion, powerful and precise. The log splits clean down the middle with a sound like thunder.
"Holy shit," I say.
He looks at me over his shoulder. "That's one log."
"That was incredible."
"It's just wood."