Page 112 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Heat climbs up my spine, but I don’t look away.

“If you come home with me,” he says slowly, “I guarantee not to kick you out before breakfast.”

There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“And after?” I press.

His jaw flexes once.

“After,” he says, voice rougher now, “we can go slow as you like.”

Slow.

The word surprises me.

“Are you sure,” I ask, tilting my head slightly, “you can handle a grown-up relationship with me?”

His brows draw together—not offended. Focused.

“As long as we manage expectations, Trouble, I think we can do this,” he says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, for starters, I’m not asking you to change for me. I’m not asking you to give up your work or your lifestyle.”

“Good,” I reply lightly. “Because I like indoor plumbing.”

He almost smiles.

Almost.

“I’m just asking for tonight,” he continues. “And tomorrow. And maybe the next day. I don’t know what this is going to be yet. But I know I don’t want to run from it.”

That.

That right there.

It hits harder than any polished promise ever could.

Geoffrey used to talk about five-year plans.

About joint investments.

About how our brands would align.

Greyson is talking about the next sunrise.

And somehow that feels more real.

I look down at the ridiculous plushie he won for me tucked under my arm.

At the cotton candy stick tangled between my fingers.

At my navy dress dusted with sugar—and maybe a drop of pizza sauce.

At the man in front of me who looks like he’s bracing for impact.

Like I could break him.