Page 34 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

At anything that isn’t her.

Because attraction is dangerous.

And this attraction? It has teeth.

But it’s pointless.

I know what happens when I want someone.

Want becomes need.

Need becomes weakness.

And weakness is how you lose the life you built with your own hands.

She steps closer, gaze skimming the kitchen like she’s trying to understand what kind of man lives like this.

Like she’s cataloging my cast iron pans and the stack of firewood by the hearth and the faint smell of cedar smoke that never leaves the place.

Her eyes land on the teapot.

“You made tea?” she asks.

Her voice is softer than it was outside.

Still sharp at the edges, but calmer.

Like the warmth has loosened her enough to remember she’s human.

The question breaks the spell.

I blink. Inhale.

My lungs finally work again.

“Yeah,” I say, and the word comes out gruffer than I intend. I clear my throat and nod at the table. “Sit.”

She hesitates like she doesn’t trust the chair not to bite.

Then she sits anyway, carefully, keeping the robe tight around her.

I set the plate down in front of her and realize—too late—that I’m playing host.

That I’m doing domestic things for a stranger.

That she’s in my space.

And worse—that I don’t hate it as much as I should.

I pour the tea into two mugs. The steam curls upward, carrying the scent—earthy, strong, calming.

I hand her one.

Our fingers almost touch.

Almost.

And that almost sends a jolt up my arm like the storm came inside.