Chop Me Down: Chapter One - Sharp Edges and Hard Lines

Log Off and Lean In

I came into the woods for a little "me time" and some manual labor for the ‘gram. What I got was a dull axe, a blister, and Silas Vance—the human equivalent of a thunderstorm in flannel. He thinks he’s going to chop me down to size, but I’m not exactly known for playing nice. The tension in this clearing is thick enough to cut with a saw... if I could actually get the saw to work.

Chapter One 

Sloane 

Sharp Edges and Hard Lines

If Silas Vance looks at me with that "bless your heart" expression one more time, I am going to use this axe for something other than splitting maple.

I’m currently standing in what used to be a picturesque clearing on the edge of my property, the future site of my "Rustic Retreat" blog-office, but is now a crime scene of splintered wood and my own shattered pride. The sun is beating down, my ponytail is losing the war against humidity, and I am fairly certain I have a blister forming on my palm that will require a medical professional and a very strong cocktail.

I’d envisioned this morning differently. I saw myself in my new, perfectly distressed denim and a cute bandana, effortlessly swinging an axe like some reclaimed pioneer goddess. I’d take a few "candid" shots of the progress, post them with a caption about Self-Reliance™, and be back inside for an iced latte by noon.

Instead, I’m sweating in places I didn’t know I could sweat, and the only thing I’ve successfully "reclaimed" is a deep-seated resentment for heavy machinery.

“You’re holding it like a hockey stick, Sloane.”

I don’t even look at him. I don’t need to. I can feel him. Silas is leaning against the bed of his blacked-out pickup truck, arms crossed over a chest that has no business being that wide. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray henley with the sleeves pushed up, revealing forearms that are basically a roadmap of veins and bad intentions. He’s been there for ten minutes, just watching me fail. It’s his favorite hobby.

“I’m holding it with authority, Silas,” I snap, readjusting my grip for the tenth time. My palms are slick, and the wooden handle feels like it’s vibrating with its own mockery. “It’s called technique. You should look it up sometime between your scheduled brooding sessions.”

“Technique involves actually hitting the wood. You’ve been swinging for twenty minutes and that log looks like it’s been nibbled on by a confused beaver.”

I whip around, the axe head sagging just a bit because, okay, the damn thing weighs a thousand pounds. “I didn’t ask for a consultant. I’m clearing this lot. It’s my lot. My wood. My aesthetic.”

“Your aesthetic is going to end with a trip to the ER.” He pushes off the truck, moving with that slow, predatory grace that makes my stomach do a stupid little flip I try to pretend is just hunger.

Silas is the human equivalent of a thunderstorm, dark, loud, and prone to making people seek shelter. We’ve been at each other's throats since I moved back to town and dared to suggest his family’s timber legacy could use a little "digital modernization." He called me a "content-obsessed tourist." I called him a "technophobic Neanderthal."

Silas Vance doesn’t just disagree with you; he tries to level you. He has this way of looking at me and my plans for this town, like we’re just overgrowth in his way. He’s spent his whole life cutting down giants, and I can tell he’s just waiting for the chance to chop me down to size. Figuratively. Probably.

I hate him. I really do. I hate that he’s six-foot-three of pure, rugged competence. I hate that he looks better in a pair of stained work boots than most men look in a tailored suit. And I especially hate that he’s right, I have no idea what I’m doing.

He stops three feet away. Close enough that I can smell the cedarwood, the faint, salty scent of skin that’s been working in the sun, and a hint of expensive espresso. It’s a devastatingly masculine smell. It’s the kind of smell that makes a girl want to forget she has a master’s degree and a five-step skincare routine.

“Give it here,” he grunts, reaching for the axe.

“No.” I pull it back, hugging the handle to my chest. “I’m doing this. I told the contractor the site would be cleared by Monday. I’m not letting some grumpy mountain man do it for me just because he thinks women are made of glass and glitter.”

He lets out a low, dry chuckle that sends a shiver straight down my spine. “Glass and glitter? Sloane, I’ve seen you go toe-to-toe with the town council over a zoning permit. I know you’re made of titanium and spite.”

He takes another step and the clearing suddenly feels very small. The birds have gone quiet, the wind has died down, and all I can hear is the sound of my own pulse thudding in my ears. He’s looking at me now, really looking at me. His gaze tracing the line of my throat, the messy strands of hair clinging to my temples, and the way my breathing has hitched.

“But titanium breaks under enough pressure,” he whispers, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that feels like a physical touch.

“I’m not breaking,” I whisper back, though my knees are feeling suspiciously like jelly.

“Is that right?” He doesn't go for the axe this time. Instead, he reaches out and runs a thumb along the line of my jaw, wiping away a smudge of dirt. His skin is rough, calloused, and hot, so hot it feels like he’s branding me. “Then why is your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest?”

I try to find my voice, to find a clever retort that will put him back in his place, but my brain has gone completely offline. All I can focus on is the heat radiating off him and the way his blue eyes have turned the color of the lake right before a freeze.

“It’s the… the exertion,” I manage to choke out.

“Uh-huh.” He smirks, his thumb lingering near the corner of my mouth. “Let’s test that theory.”

He moves behind me, his chest pressing against my back, his height looming over me. He’s a wall of solid muscle and flannel, and I am suddenly very aware of the fact that we are completely alone in the woods.

“Wider stance,” he commands, his hands sliding down my arms to my wrists. He’s not being gentle. He’s being firm, guiding my movements with a terrifying amount of control. “Keep your eyes on the center of the grain. Don’t just swing, Sloane. Drive through it.”

His hands move from my wrists to my waist, adjusting my posture. His touch is heavy, certain, and completely inappropriate for a neighborly dispute. I can feel the heat of his palms through my denim, and I’m fairly certain I’ve forgotten how to breathe entirely.

“Now,” he murmurs into my ear, his breath tickling my skin. “Show me that authority you were talking about.”

I take a breath, trying to steady my shaking hands. I swing. This time, the axe connects with a satisfying thwack, splitting the maple log clean down the middle.

“There,” I pant, leaning on the handle, my heart racing for an entirely different reason now. “See? Authority.”

I turn in his arms, a mistake I realize the second I do it. We’re chest-to-chest now. I can feel the hard planes of his torso against my breasts, the heavy buckle of his belt against my hip. He doesn't move back. He doesn't apologize. He just looks down at me, his eyes dark with something that definitely isn't neighborly concern.

“Not bad,” he says, his voice like velvet. “But you’ve still got a whole pile left.”

He leans in, his face inches from mine. I can see the individual golden flecks in his eyes, the slight scar on his lip, and the way his jaw is tight with restraint.

“Tell me, Sloane,” he whispers, his hand sliding up from my waist to the nape of my neck, his fingers tangling in my messy ponytail. “Are you going to keep fighting me, or are you going to let me show you how this is really done?”

The ‘Chop Me Down’ metaphor isn't a metaphor anymore. He’s leveling my defenses, chip by chip, and I’m starting to realize that the only thing I want to hit right now is him.

“I think,” I breathe, my hand reaching up to rest on his solid, warm chest, “that you talk way too much for a man who claims to like the quiet.”

His eyes flare. “Careful, city girl. You keep pushing, and you might find out exactly what happens when I stop talking.”

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

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First Edition: January 2026

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