Page 14 of Axe-Rated Lumberjack

“Then it’s fine with me.” Lyle signed the leave request and slid it across the desk. “Try to enjoy your time away, Hudson. You haven’t taken much of it lately.”

“Thanks. I intend to.”

That might have been optimistic, considering I still had to prove I could speak into a microphone without sounding like an idiot. But it was nice to have one thing settled.

Outside, I handed Reuben the last of my notes and checked that Toby had heard the change in reporting arrangements directly. Nobody seemed particularly impressed that I was taking a day off. Considering the crew had seen me spend part of a morning trying to remove a wasp from inside my truck without opening the driver’s door, I supposed it took quite a bit to surprise them.

I removed my site gear before getting back into the pickup and opened the email Oliver had sent while I’d been with Lyle. The subject line contained the words PAID VOICE TRIAL. They looked no less ridiculous the second time I read them.

Oliver’s paperwork was thorough. The test would be paid whether or not Folio hired me, and the recording could be evaluated only for the audition. If they offered the one-book job afterward, I’d get a separate agreement spelling out the rush payment, my assigned passages, and Sunday’s recording handoff. Any use of my name, picture, or identifying information in advertising would require another written approval that I was under no obligation to give. The proposed pseudonym was my choice, too.

I read the privacy language twice. It wasn’t that I imagined thousands of people cared who I was. I just liked coming to work, doing my job, seeing my family, and being left alone when I went home. I wasn’t interested in having my face attached to a campaign about some mysterious mountain man who’d wandered out of the woods to read dirty books.

The money, on the other hand, was very interesting. Oliver had been serious about compensating me for the short notice. I could afford to be interested without handing over the rest of my life.

I signed the paid-trial authorization on my phone and sent it back. The full narration agreement could wait until somebody decided I knew what to do with a script.

I stopped by my house on the way to the cottage. After washing the day’s grime off my hands and face, I traded the work flannel for a clean charcoal henley, changed into jeans, and grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of water. The clock over the stove told me I had enough time to eat without driving like a fool. I’d spent the afternoon telling other people not to rush; it would’ve been embarrassing to arrive at my new job with a speeding ticket.

By the time I turned onto the narrow road leading to Peyton’s rental, the sun was dropping behind the wooded ridge. Maple branches reached over the pavement, and the last of the daylight shone through them in patches of orange and red. A few porch lights had come on at houses set back among the trees. The air through my cracked window smelled of damp leaves and somebody’s woodstove.

I’d known there were rental cottages out this way, but I hadn’t pictured one containing a professional recording setup and a woman who’d managed to talk me into an audition after doing something she wasn’t supposed to do. I was still irritated about the clip. Her apology had helped, though, and she’d looked me in the eye when she gave it. That counted for something.

It didn’t hurt that I liked making her laugh.

***

The cottage sat beyond a short gravel drive, with warm light spilling from its front windows and a pair of pumpkins on the steps. I parked, checked the time—six twenty-seven—and climbed out into air cool enough to sting my freshly washed hands.

Peyton answered before I’d finished knocking. She wore the same rust-colored cardigan I’d seen at the diner, with a cream blouse beneath it and her dark hair clipped neatly away from one cheek. Her glasses slipped a little as she looked up at me. I could’ve helped by not noticing how pretty her mouth was, but apparently I wasn’t that generous a man.

“You’re early,” she said, then glanced past my shoulder toward the drive. “Well, three minutes early. Which is a perfectly respectable amount of early. Come in.”

“I wasn’t sure what the late policy was. Do I lose points if I show up after the opening credits?”

“Only if you arrive after we’ve cast somebody else as the dragon.” She stepped back to let me in, a smile tugging at her lips. “And thank you for coming. I know this is a strange way to spend your Thursday evening.”

I stepped onto the mat, brushing a bit of gravel from the cuff of my jeans before I came any farther. The cottage smelled faintly of applewood and something warm and sweet, though I couldn’t see anything baking. “I’ve had stranger Thursdays. None of them paid nearly this well.”

Cream-colored cupboards lined the little kitchen, and a folded wool coat hung near the door. The living room had thick throws draped over the furniture, a stone fireplace, and windows looking out toward darkening maples. Somebody had placed tiny pumpkins in a bowl on the table, which seemed appropriate for a woman who’d ordered a pumpkin latte and then fed some of it to her coat.

I looked down at my boots. “Want me to take these off? The gravel’s dry, but I was at the site all afternoon.”

“Please. The recording room’s carpeted, and I’d love to return this place without half a forest in it.” She indicated a spot beside the door, then waited while I took them off. “Oliver said you signed the trial paperwork. Did everything look all right?”

“I read it. Particularly the part where I’m not suddenly the face of a lumberjack calendar.”

Peyton laughed. “That wasn’t in the proposal.”

“Good. I’d hate to hold you to the wrong contract.”

She led me down a short hall to the back bedroom. The ordinary little room had been transformed into a workspace with portable black acoustic panels, a desk crowded with a laptop and audio equipment, and a microphone attached to an adjustable stand. Thick curtains covered the window. A second chair waited beside a stack of marked pages, and a fresh bottle of water sat within easy reach.

I stopped at the doorway to take it in. “You brought all this with you?”

“Most of it. I normally record at home in Minneapolis, but I wanted somewhere quiet for this book. The forest setting seemed like good inspiration. The panels come apart for transport, although the packing is less romantic than the finished arrangement.” She glanced at me. “It’s not a proper studio, but the room tests well.”

I ran a hand along the edge of one panel, careful not to dislodge it. “Looks like you know how to make a room do what you need it to.”