Page 35 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

She wraps both hands around the mug, absorbing the heat like she’s starving for it.

I watch her for half a second too long.

The way her lashes clump slightly from damp.

The way the towel is twisted high on her head like she has no clue how to do it properly but she’s trying anyway.

The way her shoulders are still tense, like she’s braced for something worse.

And the question I’ve been avoiding rises up again.

Why the hell is she here?

A woman like this doesn’t end up on my mountain by accident.

Not unless the universe is laughing at me.

I pull my attention back to the food before my brain betrays me again.

“You allergic to anything?” I ask, nodding at the sandwiches.

Her brows knit. “No. Why?”

“I made sandwiches. Nutella and PB&J.” The words feel weird in my mouth, like I’m confessing something. I slide the plate an inch closer. “You pick first.”

She stares at the options like she’s never seen a sandwich in her life.

Then she looks up at me, eyes bright with something that isn’t fear this time.

Amusement.

“Is that your way of being hospitable?” she asks, and there’s a faint smile tugging at her mouth.

I scowl on instinct.

“It’s my way of making sure you don’t pass out.”

Her smile widens like she’s decided I’m entertaining.

“That’s almost sweet,” she says.

I grunt. “Don’t get used to it.”

She leans forward a fraction, lowering her voice like we’re conspiring.

“How about we go half and half?”

I pause.

It’s such a normal thing to say. Such a small thing. The kind of thing people who know each other for a long time say without thinking.

My stomach tightens.

My hands twitch.

But her eyes are open, steady, offering me an out from the tension without even realizing she’s doing it.

I exhale through my nose and slide the plate between us.