October 26, Saturday

MY FINGERLESS gloves kept my hands warm as I scribbled away in my notebook, perched on my usual bench in the Whisper Graveyard. Lady Amelia was in the midst of a particularly witty exchange with Lord Stonecraft when the rumble of a familiar truck pulled me from my fictional world.

I looked up to see Sawyer's battered pickup rolling to a stop outside the gate. He emerged, a gleaming axe slung over his shoulder, his face set in lines of grim determination.

"Morning," he called, his voice gruff but not unfriendly.

I nodded in response, suddenly very aware of my unwashed hair and the ink smudges on my fingers. "Here to tackle the fallen oak?"

"About time, isn't it?" He gazed at the massive trunk that still lay near Rose's empty grave. "Can't leave it like this much longer."

I murmured agreement, and for a moment, we stood in awkward silence. Then, as if by mutual, unspoken decision, we both relaxed. Sawyer moved towards the tree, and I returned to my notebook.

The rhythmic thunk of axe against wood soon filled the air, punctuated by Sawyer's measured breathing. I tried to focus on my writing, I really did. But my eyes kept wandering to the spectacle before me.

Sawyer had shed his flannel shirt, working now in just a thin white t-shirt that did little to hide the play of muscles beneath. His powerful arms rose and fell with each swing, sending wood chips flying. A light sheen of sweat made his skin glisten in the morning sun.

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. This was better than any romance novel cover model. This was real, raw, and right in front of me.

Under the guise of observing my surroundings, I watched him from beneath my lashes. The way his jaw clenched with effort, the flex of his back as he bent to move a severed branch, the quiet grunt of exertion as he tackled a particularly stubborn knot in the wood.

My pen moved almost of its own accord, transferring the heat building inside me to the page. Lady Amelia's witty banter morphed into something altogether more... primal.

Lord Stonecraft's strong hands, calloused from his stonework, trailing fire along her skin. The flex of his muscled back as he pressed her against the cool marble of a newly finished sculpture. The rough brush of his stubbled jaw against her neck as he whispered promises in her ear.

I bit my lip, my cheeks flushing with more than just the chill in the air. This was quickly becoming the steamiest scene I'd ever written.

A particularly loud crack jerked me from my heated reverie. I looked up to see Sawyer standing over the last large section of trunk, axe raised triumphantly. He turned, catching my eye, and for a moment, the air between us seemed to crackle with electricity.

Did he know what effect he was having on me? Could he sense the heat of my gaze, the quickening of my pulse?

If he did, he gave no sign. Instead, he simply nodded towards my notebook. "Making good progress?"

I glanced down at the pages filled with my increasingly fevered handwriting. "You could say that," I managed, hoping my voice sounded steadier than it felt.

Sawyer's lips quirked in a half-smile. "Glad to hear it. Wouldn't want to be a distraction."

Was there a hint of teasing in his tone? Before I could decide, he'd turned back to his work, gathering the smaller branches into a pile.

We continued like that for another hour, working in companionable silence. Me, furiously scribbling what was shaping up to be the hottest scene of my career. Sawyer, methodically clearing away the remnants of the fallen oak, unaware (or perhaps very aware) of the effect his every movement was having on my literary output.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Sawyer finally called it a day. He gathered his tools, nodding a farewell as he headed back to his truck.

I watched him go, my mind still half in the steamy world I'd created on the page. One thing was certain – Lady Amelia and Lord Stonecraft were in for quite the passionate encounter in the next chapter.

And as for me and Sawyer? Well, that story was still being written.