I find a little shed past the woodpile. There’s a locked door in the back of it that I don’t bother opening. The front of the shed contains the basics I need for now—snow shovel, a couple axes, one is duller than the other. I take the sharper axe and trudge to the chopping block set up between the shed and the cabin. Squinting at the sky tells me we have maybe another half an hour before the storm really starts to bring it down. Already the snow is thickening in the air, coming down in fat, sticky flakes. My feet sink up to my ankles when I cross the yard, which makes me a little nervous. Only a few minutes ago, when we were bringing the wood inside, it barely came halfway up my boot.

This is going to be a bad one, every instinct in my body is shouting. I’ve been through enough storms with Daddy, when we came up here for ski season, to recognize the signs. Normally, though, I have Daddy and my older brothers to help prepare for the weather. Today, I just have to hope I remember everything I’ve learned from them over the years.

I settle the first of the couple bigger logs I’ve brought out on the chopping block and heft the axe.

At that moment, I hear footsteps behind me. I glance over my shoulder and find Professor Lakewood settling another log on a makeshift chopping block he’s made out of a dusted-off tree stump. He has the other axe, the duller one.

He smirks when I stare. “What? Did you think you were the only one with any survival skills?” he comments. Then he sets a hunk of wood on the block, positions himself, and takes a swing. The wood splits on the first hit, even though it’s a dull blade. I can’t help watching his body move. His arm muscles, especially, bulge as he sweeps aside that wood and lifts another piece to split. I watch him swing the axe twice more before I remember I have wood of my own to chop.

“This generally goes faster if you don’t spend half the time drooling over your partner,” he points out.

I scoff aloud, shoulders tensing as I lift my own axe. Aim for the center of the wood, swing hard… I bring it down and grin a little as it splits with a loud crack. “What were you saying about faster?” I call over my shoulder.

He cracks another log in response. “Going to have to be faster than that to beat me,” he responds.

My grin widens. “You’re on.”

Soon we’re both in the swing of it. I lose track of time, lost in the rhythm. Set up, swing, crack, and repeat. Before long, I’ve gone through all my wood—halved most of the logs, and quartered some others that we’ll need to stoke the flames back up if they dwindle. Only once I’ve finished do I wipe sweat from my brow and glance back at my professor again, a triumphant grin on my face.

It falters a little when I notice that he’s already done—probably has been for a while. But at least he seems every bit as distracted as he accused me of being. His jaw snaps shut when I meet his eye, though not before I catch a glimpse of him ogling me right back. And his eyes are still wandering, all over my body, lingering on my arms and the axe dangling from one hand.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” he finally asks.

I just smirk and start collecting my wood pieces. “There are some advantages to growing up the only girl in a house of boys.” I make a point of bending over real slow, just so his eyes will linger on my backside as I collect the wood. It works. One glance back shows me he’s too busy staring at my ass to even notice me looking at him.

Is he thinking the same thing I am? Is he wondering what it would be like to bend me over this chopping block right here, tear my jeans off and fuck me across it?

When I straighten, arms full of wood, Professor Lakewood finally manages to force his expression back to one of bored neutrality. “It’s a shame you can’t put that kind of effort into your classes,” he comments, with a glance at the wood piled in my arms.

I roll my eyes. “You know, none of my other professors complain about my work ethic,” I reply as I elbow past him toward the cabin.

“Then your other professors aren’t pushing you hard enough.”

“Oh, is that it?” I snort and kick my way into the cabin, then dump the wood back into our little mudroom pile. “You’re a complete ass to me because you want to push me harder?” Then I realize how that sounds, and my cheeks flush.

He notices too, his smirk widening as he drops his pile of wood beside mine. “Yes, Corina, I must admit. I do want to push you harder. Because you’re better than the work you’re putting out currently. And if people didn’t spend their whole lives bending over backwards to give you everything you want, then you could be so much farther ahead in your studies than you are now.”

I frown, tilting my head. “What are you talking about?”

He holds my gaze for a long moment. I never noticed his eyes before. They’re dark green behind those glasses, flecked with tiny bursts of gold around his irises. He holds my gaze long enough for me to forget what I just said, to feel my body starting to tilt forward, unable to resist his gravitational pull. Then he blinks, and the illusion snaps for a moment. I shake my head, pull myself backward. “You don’t think you’re spoiled, Corina? You don’t think you get everything you want, whenever you want it?”

I laugh once, harsh. “You don’t know me, Professor Lakewood.”

“Please.” He rolls his eyes, and I think he’s going to retort that he does know me, somehow. Though I don’t know how he possibly thinks he does, after just two months of torturing me in his classroom. But instead, he gestures at the cabin around us. “Although I never tire of being called professor, I think in a setting like this, Tony will do just fine.”

I set my jaw. Is this his idea of a peace offering? Screw that. “You don’t know me, so quit acting like you do. My work ethic is just fine. If I’m distracted at all, I’m distracted by you constantly picking on me, calling me out in front of the whole class, when I’m doing the same work as everyone else.”

That infuriating smirk of his widens. “So you’re saying I’m the reason you’re so distracted in class?” His eyebrows lift, and he takes a step closer. I hold my ground. Lift my chin to glare up at him. We’re barely a foot apart now. The air between us warms, and I can tell my cheeks are flushed again. I don’t care.

I narrow my eyes. “Sure, Tony. You’re distracting in that you’re unfairly critical.”

“I just expect the best performance from my students.” His gaze drops, lower than my face. I can feel him studying my body, my curves. I tilt my head to the side to allow him a better view. Let him be distracted for once. But his gaze snaps back to my face, every bit as focused as it was a moment ago. “And you, Corina, are smarter than the work you put forth. You’re smarter than most of the other students in that classroom. So yes, I am going to push you harder than any of them. Because you can take it.”

I swallow hard. There’s barely any space between us anymore. When did he get so close? I’m staring into those gold-flecked green eyes again, tilting forward, unable to resist. My heartbeat pounds, and my limbs feel tingly, my stomach tight with desire. The flash of fantasy I had earlier about him bending me over outside returns, even harder now. I imagine him pushing me back against the kitchen counter, lifting me onto it and tearing my shirt open. Tonguing my nipple as he peels off my jeans and slides his thick cock between my thighs…

“Then again, maybe I’m wrong.” He breaks away, steps back.

All the air rushes back into my lungs at once, making my knees feel weak. I reach back and grip the kitchen counter, this time just to keep myself steady on my feet. Dammit, Corina. I can’t let him get to me like that.

“Maybe you can’t take it. Maybe you’re just as big a failure as most of the other students I’m stuck teaching.” He shrugs and turns, brushing past me into the living room.

I glare after him, still too breathless to form a reply. By the time I think of one, I can hear the distant creak of the fireplace door, then the sound of him stacking another piece of wood onto the fire. I shake my head, square my shoulders and turn back to the kitchen supplies instead. Screw him. Tony Lakewood doesn’t know a damned thing about me. He can take his assumptions and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine.

As for me, I’m going to prepare for this storm as best I can.

I organize the supplies in the kitchen, then take inventory. We’ve got enough food to last us a week—though I really, really hope we won’t be stuck here that long. It would really take a record-breaking storm to do that. As for the meat and fish, that we should probably eat first. There’s only enough for a few days, whereas there are plenty of dried goods.

I find a little notebook beside the stove with what appears to be guestbook notes. I guess this place is an Airbnb or something in regular season. It’s cute. I could see renting this place out for a private solo getaway. Holing up to do some schoolwork undisturbed and go skiing in the afternoons. It would be cozy—positively homey—if I didn’t have to share it with someone who makes my blood boil.

For more reasons than just because he’s irritating, my brain unhelpfully points out.

I ignore that. I tear a spare page out of the guestbook and list our supplies. One way or another, I’m making it through this storm. And if I have to rescue the most frustrating professor in the world alongside myself to make it, well then, so be it.