Page 29 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Like he’s already decided I’m trouble.

And like part of him is furious about the fact that he’s not wrong.

“Greyson,” he says finally.

Just one word.

No last name.

No pleasantry.

No nice to meet you.

It comes out rough, reluctant—like it scrapes on the way up.

Like it costs him something to hand it over.

Then he’s gone.

The door swings shut and I’m left sitting in the mudroom in borrowed heat, holding a robe that smells like cedar and smoke, trying to figure out why his name rings through me like a bell.

Greyson.

I don’t know that name.

I don’t know him.

Not really.

Not beyond the fact that he just carried me out of a thunderstorm like I was nothing, yelled a bear away like it was a nuisance, and looked at me like I’m a mistake the mountain coughed up to punish him.

Still… something prickles.

A feeling I can’t place.

I shake my head hard, like I can knock the thought loose.

Focus, Clara.

You’re freezing. You’re wet.

You’re currently in a stranger’s cabin and your toes are turning into ice cubes.

I stand on unsteady legs and start unbuttoning my coat with numb fingers.

Every motion feels clumsy, like my hands belong to someone else.

The wet fabric peels away from my skin in cold, sticky layers.

I move toward the wall of hooks to hang it beside his.

And I freeze.

Because right there—burned into the wood of the coat rack like it’s always belonged there—is a willow tree.

Not just a little doodle.

A full, sweeping design.