Page 16 of Axe-Rated Lumberjack

“Sadly, Folio’s budget doesn’t include wings. But you’ll get a bottle of water and all the script notes you can tolerate.”

She grinned, and I felt absurdly pleased with myself for getting another one of those smiles.

We settled into the actual recording. I was doing reasonably well until a passage described Drake swinging an enchanted axe at a tangled root with a technique that would’ve gotten an ordinary man sent straight to the emergency room.

“Hang on,” I said, lifting a hand before she started another take. “He has the blade above his shoulder, his feet together, and he’s supposed to bring it down while twisting? That’s a terrific way to introduce the axe to your own leg. I hope the healer has a decent first-aid kit.”

Peyton checked the page, then leaned back in her chair laughing. “That’s what it says. He’s a dragon-shifter, his bones regenerate, and the axe is enchanted.”

I glanced down at the stance described in the script. The blade would still swing across Drake’s leg, magic or not. “Does the enchantment fix bad judgment? Because he’d need quite a lot of that.”

“The enchantment mostly responds to desire,” she said, still smiling. “Which, in this book, is apparently an acceptable substitute for occupational safety. But I need Drake to sound frustrated with the curse, not furious at the tree. Can you give me that?”

“I can. Just don’t expect me to sound pleased if the tree does anything else stupid.”

She made a little mark on her page, and when we went back over the passage, I followed the words. I wasn’t being paid to rewrite the author’s forestry practices. I was being paid to make an imaginary man sound convincing even when he made dreadful choices with sharp objects. The distinction became easier to remember whenever Peyton shook with silent laughter behind her headphones.

Before long, she’d helped me work through several more sections, including one where Drake spoke quietly enough to make me lean closer to the pop filter. She stopped me, adjusted the stand, and demonstrated the difference between lowering my voice and moving my mouth closer to the microphone. When she passed me the headphones again and played the two versions back, even I could hear how much better the first approach sounded.

We broke for a few minutes so she could rest her ears and I could stretch. My shoulders were stiff from trying not to move. In the kitchen, she refilled our water bottles and offered me a mug of cider she’d warmed on the stove. The sweet smell rose with the steam and made the place feel a long way from the diesel and wet bark of my afternoon.

“Are you sorry you signed up yet?” she asked as she handed me a mug.

“I’ve discovered I can operate heavy machinery in freezing rain, but standing still and reading three pages has nearly finished me. That’s a useful lesson in humility.”

Peyton laughed and leaned against the kitchen counter, cradling her cider. “You did well. You’re improving quickly. Most people don’t realize how much concentration it takes until they try it.”

I hadn’t realized it myself. “You make it easier. You don’t leave me guessing about what you want.”

She wrapped both hands around her mug. “I’ve had narrators who treat every suggestion like a personal insult. It’s nice working with somebody who listens.”

I drank some cider before answering. “It’s your trade. If you came to the logging site, I’d want you to pay attention when I explained where to stand. Seems fair I do the same here.”

Her smile softened. We stayed in the kitchen a little longer, talking about how she had hauled the panels from Minneapolis and how long a normal day at Crosscut lasted. She asked about the timberland rather than joking about axes, and I told her a little about why we marked trees, planned access, and left some sections untouched. She listened with the same concentration she’d given the audio tracks. By the time we went back down the hall, the room felt less like a stranger’s temporary office.

Peyton glanced at the clock and sorted the remaining pages into two piles. “I think we should leave the longer intimate scenes until we’re both rested. We’ve got a solid start, but I don’t want to keep you here until midnight on your first day. If you can come back after breakfast, we can do the longer male sections tomorrow and use Saturday for the rest. Sunday stays available for any pickups Folio needs.”

“I can be here at nine. Reuben has Friday covered, and I’m off the weekend roster. I’ll have my work phone if the crew needs me. Do you have enough time to do your own recording, too?”

“Most of Isadora’s passages are finished. I’ll use the breaks to tidy up what’s left, and Bridget will take care of the production schedule. We should be all right if we keep moving.”

She straightened the last sheet in her hand. Her expression changed when she saw the highlighted paragraph at the bottom.

“There is one short passage I wanted to try tonight,” she said. “Only if you’re comfortable with it. It gets considerably more explicit than anything we’ve done so far.”

I set down my mug. “I read the content advisory. And after everything Oliver offered me, I figured I’d eventually have to say something dirtier than ‘beware the enchanted forest.’ Show me where you want to start.”

We returned to the microphone. Peyton checked that we were recording the book rather than the audition, then pointed to the line immediately before Drake’s declaration. Drake and Isadora were alone beneath the trees, and he’d begun asking her to tell him exactly what she wanted. I had a few questions about the surrounding plant life, but I could save those for tomorrow.

I read the first sentence too formally. Peyton stopped the take and reminded me that Drake was inches from a woman he wanted, not standing before a council of elders. I tried again and managed to sound like I was giving instructions to a crew member who’d misplaced his hearing protection.

“All right,” I said, laughing as she stopped the recording. “This time, give me an example of what I’m doing wrong.”

She leaned closer to the page, considering. “You’re making every sentence an order. Drake can be commanding, but Isadora knows she can tell him no. He wants her to choose him. Try asking instead of announcing. Let the last part sound like something you actually want to hear an answer to.”

I glanced at her, then at the words. They were absurdly intimate for two people who’d known each other less than a day. I could’ve made a joke and let us both off the hook. Instead, I adjusted my stance and waited for her cue.

The recording light came on.