Page 25 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I do not.

I stiffen and glare like a cat about to commit violence.

“This is—” I begin, but a fresh crack of thunder punches the air and I squeak like I’ve never been in charge of my own dignity.

He just grunts and keeps walking.

The cabin comes out of the storm like a mirage—dark wood, warm light spilling from the windows, a porch swallowed by snowdrifts.

For a split second, relief hits me so hard my eyes burn.

Then the door opens, and heat—actual, honest-to-God heat—rolls over me like a blanket.

I make a sound I do not approve of.

Not a moan.

Not a whimper.

More like a broken little gasp that reveals I might be human after all.

He steps inside and kicks the door shut behind us with his boot, and suddenly I’m in a mudroom that looks like it’s been designed for exactly this situation. Survival.

There’s a row of hooks, heavy coats, boots lined like soldiers, a bench that looks like it could hold a small car, and a big rubber mat already soaked with melted snow.

The man—this grumpy, beard-covered menace—sets me down like I’m cargo.

Not gently.

Not cruelly.

Just… matter-of-factly, because apparently I’m little more than a problem the storm has cast on his shoulders.

My feet hit the mat and I flinch, toes curling because they’re numb and the floor is still cold even in here.

I sway, and before I can fall, his hand lands on my elbow—steadying me.

The contact is brief.

But it shoots straight up my arm like a spark.

He releases me immediately.

Like he feels it too and doesn’t like it.

“Sit,” he says, voice rough.

It’s not a suggestion.

Because my legs are shaking, and because—fine—my survival instinct is fully awake now.

So, yes, I sit.

He points to a chair tucked beside the bench, and I drop into it, dripping all over everything like a broken faucet.

I look down at myself.

My coat is soaked through. My hair is a wet curtain. My hands are red. Mud stains my pants.