Page 179 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Her hand in mine.

Her choosing to stand with me.

Nothing matters more than her.

And the ring still burning in my pocket.

Not yet.

But soon.

Chapter 38

Clara

Sunflowers.

The word blooms in my mind before I even fully register what I’m seeing—before the champagne glasses, before the soft classical music, before the buzz of money and admiration and Manhattan being Manhattan.

Sunflowers.

My throat catches as I take them all in.

There are willows, of course—his signature landscapes etched into wood and leather and metal.

The mountains. The sunsets.

The same quiet magic that found me through a screen and pulled me all the way to Maine like a compass needle snapping toward north.

But the new work—the pieces he’s been disappearing into his workshop to make.

The ones he wouldn’t let me see.

They’re everywhere.

Sunflowers carved into hand-tooled leather, petals embossed so carefully they look like they might lift from the surface if you touch them wrong.

Sunflowers burned into pale wood panels, the charred lines soft and smoky, like heat turned into art.

A metal bouquet—welded, shaped, textured—each bloom somehow both delicate and indestructible.

And then I see it.

The centerpiece.

A massive round table, rich dark wood, the surface carved and burned and stained with exquisite detail—one enormous sunflower unfurling across it like a secret finally told out loud.

It’s so stunning my breath stops.

For a second, the room tilts.

Because that’s me.

Not literally.

Not my face.

But I know it’s me.