TODAY WE WELCOME OUR GUEST AUTHOR, ANNIE CARLISLE. ANNIE IS SHARING CHAPTER ONE OF HER NOVEL, 'NO AXE TO GRIND' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat

No Axe To Grind

Chapter 1 - Tessa

Damn, this chainsaw is heavy.

People brag about chainsaws like they’re some badass tool of empowerment—rev the engine, swing the blade, become the heroine in your own final girl horror story. No one tells you they weigh about the same as a toddler and have all the grace and charm of a rampaging bull.

I grunt, dragging the beast across snow-packed ground, the metal teeth bumping into every tree in sight like it knows I have no clue what I’m doing. Which is accurate. The closest I’ve come to operating a chainsaw was watching a YouTube video on 1.5x speed and calling it a masterclass.

In hindsight, maybe telling the guy at the hardware store to "give me the biggest one you’ve got" wasn’t my finest moment. But it felt right at the time. Bold. Powerful. Now? It feels like a full-body punishment.

“Why the hell is this thing so damn heavy?” I mutter, slipping on a patch of ice. My faux-fur-lined suede booties—adorable but built for boutique shopping, not snow trekking—skid out from under me. Arms flail, and I manage not to face plant by pure miracle and caffeine.

The surrounding forest is silent except for the crunch of snow underfoot and the occasional creak of tree limbs bowing under the weight of January. I had to park way back on the side of the road because the old trailhead was too snowed in to risk my Corolla, but I definitely don’t remember trekking this far in during that summer. Everything looks different when you’re hauling a chainsaw in the freezing cold, powered by your anger like a backpack full of bricks.

Another gust of cold slithers down my coat collar, reminding me why normal people don’t go traipsing into the Alaskan woods at seven in the morning with a gas-powered vendetta.

But I am not normal people.

I am Tessa Renner, recently humiliated, freshly single, and irrationally determined to demolish a heart-shaped carving engraved into a perfectly innocent tree. I mean, sorry in advance, Mr. Tree. You didn’t ask for any of this. You were just minding your own chlorophyll business when Kyle and I turned you into a symbol of our doomed romance.

I know it’s up here somewhere—the tree with the initials.

K+T

One stupid letter for him, one stupid letter for me, etched into bark three summers ago during a stupidly romantic hike that ended with a kiss and me thinking I’d found forever.

Spoiler alert: forever ended in an office at the Juneau Community Center last week, complete with my former fiancé’s pants around his ankles and his new "assistant" squealing like she’d won a prize on The Price is Right.

I didn’t even get to throw something dramatic. I just stood there in the doorway, paralyzed, holding a box of engagement cupcakes like some kind of tragic dessert fairy. Vanilla with raspberry filling. The frosting piped into delicate little hearts that mocked me with every swirl. I had spent hours on them, hand-mixing the batter, adjusting the flavor just right, because I wanted them to taste like forever. Instead, they tasted like betrayal.

“What are you doing here? It’s not what it looks like,” he’d said, tripping over the office chair like a cartoon villain caught mid-heist.

“Right. Because when someone is clearly inside someone else, what it looks like is pretty much exactly what it is.”

His belt was undone, his shirt misbuttoned, and he had the audacity to look offended—offended!—that I didn’t buy his pathetic little line. The assistant, bless her delusional heart, tried to cover herself with a clipboard like that was going to undo the fact I just saw her bare ass next to his computer. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just turned around and walked out. If I’d stayed one more second, I might’ve used the cupcakes as a weapon.

I blink out of the memory and grip the chainsaw tighter. My fingers are already aching from the cold and weight of this thing, and my coat’s hood keeps falling over my eyes. I shove it back with a huff.

“Find the damn tree. Cut the damn tree down. Then I get coffee,” I tell myself like a deranged lumberjack Snow White.

A bark echoes in the distance, sharp and sudden, bouncing off the trees like a warning shot. I freeze mid-step, one suede bootie perched awkwardly on a large boulder. Another bark follows—closer this time—and then a third, louder and more persistent, like someone’s off-leash shepherd just spotted a moose.

My stomach tightens as the realization hits me. Barking could mean dogs. Or it could mean something with more teeth and fewer boundaries. Still, I press forward, squinting into the snow-dappled pines. As long as it’s not wolves or coyotes—or worse, wolves riding coyotes—I’ll be fine. Probably.

My head snaps up. “Please don’t be wolves,” I whisper. “I have a weapon!” I shout into the trees like they care.

Which is technically true. Though at this point the chainsaw is more likely to chew off my foot than defend me.

I push deeper into the woods, scanning trunks, my breath coming in fast little clouds. There are a hundred trees out here. Maybe more. They all look like they belong on a postcard. Which would be great if I weren’t on a revenge mission.

Then I see it. Tucked just off the path, marked by the same crooked branch that snagged my hair that first day, stands the tree. Tall. Solid. Stupidly majestic in the golden morning light. And right there, halfway up the bark, is the scarred outline of a heart with our initials.

K. For Kyle.

T. For too-stupid-to-see-it-coming.

I stare at it, hands shaking. "You absolute bastard" I whisper, raising the chainsaw—then immediately wince. "Sorry. Not you" I murmur to the tree. "You're a victim in all this. Collateral damage. Honestly, you probably deserve better than me coming at you with a chainsaw and unresolved emotional baggage, but here we are."

I pull the cord, and it just sputters.

I frown at it, and glance around like someone might appear out of the trees and offer assistance. No such luck. I'm apparently the only humiliated woman out here trying to chop down a tree.

I awkwardly brace the chainsaw against my knee the way the YouTube guy did, grip the handle, and yank the cord like I’m trying to start a damn lawn mower from hell.

It sputters again, coughs like it has a cold, then dies.

I yank the cord again. Nothing.

I check the switch. It’s on. I think. I twist a knob that might be the choke. Or not. I really should’ve read the manual instead of just watching Chad the Chainsaw Guy explain it in seven minutes and a lot of finger pointing.

“This is what I get for choosing chaos,” I mutter. “Brand new chainsaw, fresh from the box, and I can’t even get it to start. Classic Tessa.”

“Oh, come on, you traitorous piece of shit!” I stomp my foot and nearly fall over again. “All I want to do is see a stump here where there is a tree. Is that too much to ask?”

I finally get it started, and the engine roars to life with a guttural growl that makes me feel like some kind of feral lumber princess. I blink at it in surprise, clutching the handle like I’ve just harnessed the power of the gods. Chad the Chainsaw Guy might actually know what he was talking about. I laugh, a little giddy, a little unhinged.

"Okay. Alright. Let’s do this."

I march over to the base of the tree like a woman possessed, plant my feet, lower the blade to the trunk, and pause dramatically—mostly because I have no idea what I’m doing. Should I be wearing goggles? Should I be yelling "timber"? Is there a specific side I’m supposed to cut first?

Too late now.

I take one last look at the initials and snarl, "This is for the time you said my lasagna was 'a little bland' in front of your mother."

Then I hack at the base like someone who absolutely, one hundred percent, has no exit strategy for when a full-sized tree decides to fall in any direction it damn well pleases.

“People usually start with smaller projects. Like birdhouses,” a deep voice says behind me.

I shriek like I’ve just seen a ghost—or a yeti—and the chainsaw sputters to a stop, falling straight onto my foot with the grace of a sack of potatoes. I yelp again, this time less horror-movie and more cartoon-character-stepping-on-a-rake, and hop backward on one leg while clutching my now-throbbing toes. "Ow ow ow ow! Shit!" I hiss, doing a little snowbank two-step like that’ll make the pain go away. So much for dramatic revenge. I’m out here losing a foot and the moral high ground.

There, towering at the edge of the clearing, is a man. Not just a man—a mountain. Broad shoulders wrapped in flannel, snow-dusted beard, expression somewhere between suspicion and amusement.

Beside him are two dogs. One black, one reddish-brown, both staring at me like I might be rabid.

“What are you doing to my tree? Are you lost?” he asks.

“No,” I say, chest heaving, cheeks flushed, toe still throbbing. “I’m taking down this monument of betrayal. It’s symbolic. Cathartic. And mildly dangerous, apparently.”

His eyebrow lifts, clearly torn between calling the cops or calling a therapist. “Honest.”

I square my shoulders like I haven’t just assaulted my own foot with a chainsaw. “It’s my tree. Well, not technically mine. But metaphorically.”

He glances at the chainsaw. “You planning on cutting the whole thing down?”

I cross my arms. “I was going to, but now I'm thinking better of it. I suppose I'll do just the heart. The tree can live its best life without Kyle and Tessa scarring it forever.”

One of the dogs trots forward, ears perked, and sniffs the chainsaw suspiciously before sneezing. The other follows, circling around me once, tail swishing like I’m something between a squirrel and a cautionary tale.

The man steps closer now, boots crunching softly in the snow. "You okay?" he asks, voice quieter, less amused.

I glance down at the chainsaw, then at my sore foot, then back up at the bearded stranger and his judgmental sidekicks. "Define 'okay,'" I say. "If you're asking if I still have all my limbs and haven't cried yet today—yes. Technically."

He huffs something that might be a laugh, or maybe just a sigh of disbelief that I’m still upright.

“Do you even know how to use that thing?” the mountain man asks, eyeing the chainsaw like it might turn on both of us at any second.

I raise my chin with as much dignity as one can muster while wearing frost-dusted booties and a coat that smells faintly of desperation. “I watched a video. Sort of. I got bored halfway through and skipped to the part where he cut through a stump like it was warm butter. Figured the rest was vibes.”

His expression doesn’t change, but I swear the dogs are judging me harder. One even lets out a slow, unimpressed huff and lies down.

“Right,” he says slowly, as if debating whether to confiscate the chainsaw or call for more adult supervision. He sighs, steps closer, eyes sweeping over me like he’s checking for frostbite or mental instability. Probably both.

“What’s your name?”

“No, no. You first.” I decide if he’s going to kill me, then I don’t want him using my name as he chops me into little pieces.

He chuckles, “Gage, and this is Rocco and Toby.” He points to the dogs at his side.

Gage. I like that name, and no one lies about being named Gage, right? If he were going to lie to me, he would have used John or Bill. Not Gage. “Mine’s Tessa.”

“You're not from around here, are you, Tessa?” he asks.

“No. Florida. I flew in to surprise my fiancé, who lives in town, thinking I’d walk in with cupcakes and leave with a great story. Instead, I got a front-row seat to his pants down performance on his desk with his assistant. So, yeah—big surprises all around.”

His lips twitch. “Sorry to hear that.”

I shrug, but it comes out more like a shiver as the snowflakes begin to fall. Soft at first—light and lazy like powdered sugar drifting from the sky. But then the wind picks up, and the flakes come faster, thicker, swirling in sudden gusts that sting my cheeks. The temperature drops like a bad plot twist, and I realize with growing dread that the distant haze on the horizon isn’t just picturesque winter gloom—it’s the edge of a storm rolling in. Of course it is. Because nothing says emotional closure like frostbite.

He notices. “You’re freezing,” he says, his gaze sliding down to my suede booties and lingering there for a beat too long. “And, uh... are those what you thought were appropriate for a hike into the Alaskan backwoods?”

I follow his gaze and grimace. “They matched my travel outfit,” I say defensively, as if coordinating accessories justifies the fact my toes are probably flirting with hypothermia. “And I wasn’t planning on vengeance via forestry when I packed.” I look at him. “Don't worry. I’m fine.”

He picks up the chainsaw as if it weighs nothing. “Come on. Storm’s coming.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you. I don't know you,” I say, hesitating even as my arms wrap tighter around my shivering frame. My voice is firmer than I feel, and I blink up at him, surprised by how calm he looks. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t push, just gives me a quiet, steady look like he’s used to coaxing terrified animals out of the cold.

For a second, I wonder if I’ve misjudged the whole situation. He doesn’t look like a murderer. More like a man who builds cabins and says things like, "You’re letting the heat out." But still. Stranger danger and all that. Even if that stranger smells like cedar and competence.

“Suit yourself.” He walks off, the dogs trotting ahead like they know the route by heart.

He calls over his shoulder, “But with the snow picking up, finding your way back to wherever you parked is going to be a hell of a lot harder. That trail’s already half-disappeared.”

I glance around, suddenly aware that the trees are blurring together under a fresh coat of white, and the narrow path I came in on looks a lot less obvious than it did twenty minutes ago.He’s not wrong. Dammit.

The dogs disappear around a bend. So does my pride.

I glance back at the tree, then up at the sky, where the clouds have gone from puffy and scenic to full-blown blizzard-in-training. Snow is coming down heavier now, the kind that swirls sideways in little funnel clouds and gets in your eyelashes and your soul. My nose is numb, my fingers are frozen chicken nuggets, and I have a strong suspicion I wouldn't be able to retrace my steps even if I had a GPS, a map, and an emotional support eagle guiding me. Yep. I’m absolutely, undeniably screwed if I don’t go with Flannel Paul Bunyan and his judgmental canine entourage.

I hobble off, my toe killing me, snow swirling around my ankles like nature’s way of saying, "bad idea, girl." Every step feels like I'm walking on a Lego made of regret. I don't even make it five feet before I stop, frustration prickling hotter than the wind chill. “Wait!” I call, throwing pride to the wind along with what little body heat I have left.

He turns and sees me limping through the swirling snow, toe throbbing, arms flailing like a drunk penguin on an ice rink. Before I can protest, he strides back through the whiteout, scoops me up around the waist like it’s a Tuesday chore, and hoists me off the ground like a sack of sass and poor decisions. It scares the hell out of me, and I yelp, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.

“Okay! Warning next time!” I gasp, blinking up at him. “You can’t just swoop in all man-of-the-mountain without some kind of heads-up!”

"Can’t carry you and your weapon of mass destruction at the same time,” he says. “As it is, I’m already pushing the limit of what qualifies as a rescue mission versus a sitcom setup."

I wrap my arms around his neck and grumble under my breath, “This doesn’t mean I’m done with that tree.” I jab a gloved finger back over his shoulder, the offending trunk barely visible now through the falling snow. “It’s mocking me. I swear it. Sitting there all smug with its romantic little scar like it didn’t ruin my life. Probably thrilled I wiped out and got abducted by a flannel-scented mountain man.”

“Flannel-scented?” he asks, and when I glance up, there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It’s not full-blown amusement—more like reluctant curiosity wrapped in a beard. He clearly thinks I’m ridiculous. Possibly unstable. But I swear there's a glint of respect hiding behind that exasperation.

The cabin emerges from the trees like something conjured by snow and silence—sturdy and dark-wooded, dusted with a fresh layer of white that clings to the roof and windowpanes. Smoke curls from the chimney, billowing into the air with slow, lazy confidence, like it knows warmth lives inside. The glow from the windows casts soft amber halos into the storm, a promise of shelter that tugs at something deep in my frostbitten soul.

It looks... real. Not staged or storybook, just solid. Safe. The place built by someone who knows how to survive a blizzard without a panic attack and can probably light a fire with one match and sheer willpower. Which, for the record, is not a skill I possess. I’m from Florida—our survival tools are air conditioning and hurricane shutters.

He climbs the porch steps with me still tucked securely in his arms; the boards creaking beneath his heavy boots while the wind howls around us. I bounce slightly with each step, clutching his shoulders and praying we don’t both go down like lumberjack dominoes. When we reach the top, he leans sideways with a practiced ease and sets the chainsaw onto the wooden deck with a low, final-sounding thud. It rests there like a failed sidekick, cold and abandoned.

“Sorry, buddy,” I mutter to it. “You’ll get your moment. Just not today.”

He doesn’t comment, but I swear I hear a breath that might be a chuckle as he nudges the door open with his shoulder.

Warmth spills out like a hug I wasn’t expecting. The scent of firewood and something slightly piney wraps around me instantly. The dogs slip in ahead of us, tails wagging, completely unbothered by the chaos trailing behind them.

He carries me straight to a well-worn couch, its cushions inviting and covered in the flannel pattern that could qualify as camouflage in his wardrobe. He lowers me gently onto it, surprisingly careful for someone with biceps that could probably bench press my car.

I eye him as he straightens up and shrugs off his snow-dusted jacket, then disappears into the kitchen.

Revenge may be on hold for now, but something tells me I just traded one kind of trouble for another.

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https://www.amazon.co.uk/No-Axe-Grind-Mountain-Romantic-ebook/dp/B0FM8QYJDV/ref=sr_1_2?crid=385OJ80TSQRFT&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.lMk65v7UC2nGT26wf9XqFJqyU6GwT88W6HVGsE7zB7DGjHj071QN20LucGBJIEps.DOzaOjPBzWSv6Mczksl_ROWSnL_3zZ6D4rczQL6xF8Q&dib_tag=se&keywords=no+axe+to+grind+by+annie+carlisle&qid=1762273008&sprefix=no+axe+to+gr%2Caps%2C168&sr=8-2

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Author Annie Carlisle

AUTHOR BIO

Annie Carlisle is the author of steamy, romantic comedies that keep readers turning pages and laughing out loud late into the night. Best known for her Hibiscus Harbor series, Annie weaves together fiercely resilient heroines, irresistible alpha heroes, and just the right dose of danger, heat, laughs, and heart.

A proud Florida native, Annie’s life experiences are as rich and varied as her characters—from working as a street and flight paramedic to chasing down story ideas at all hours. But storytelling has always been her favorite adventure.

When she’s not writing, Annie is a devoted dog mom, lifelong animal lover, and unapologetic collector of all things Goofy. She believes in the magic of happily ever after—both in fiction and in real life. She shares her days with her retired Sheriff’s Deputy husband and their beloved pups, whether they’re hitting the beach, the dog park, or just enjoying a cozy evening at home.

Learn more about Annie and her books at www.AnnieCarlisle.com.

Website: www.AnnieCarlisle.com

Facebook Reader Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/anniecarlisle

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B00WVTFYY0

COMING SOON: On Monday, 15th December, our team member, author Eva Bielby is sharing her latest Flash Fiction story, 'Flashes, Fear and Fascination'.