Page 36 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“Deal,” I say.

And as she reaches for the first half—fingers still trembling slightly, but steadier than before—I watch her, curiosity sharpening into something that feels like a warning bell in my chest.

Because I can’t stop thinking it.

She didn’t end up here by accident.

And when she tells me why she’s on my mountain, I’m not sure I’m going to like the answer.

Chapter 6

Clara

I expect an interrogation when I step into his cabin.

A gruff “Who are you?”

A suspicious glare.

A lecture about trespassing.

Maybe even the kind of silent, icy treatment that makes you feel like you’re contaminating someone’s space just by breathing.

Instead, I get tea.

And Nutella.

My weakness.

If humanity has ever created anything more perfect than chocolate-hazelnut spread, I have not encountered it—and I mean that sincerely.

I’ve eaten in Paris. I’ve had gelato in Rome that made me briefly consider moving to Italy and becoming an entirely different person.

I’ve had exclusive desserts plated like modern art and priced like rent.

Nothing beats Nutella on bread when you’re cold, exhausted, and emotionally unraveling.

It’s humble perfection.

And it’s sitting in front of me like this bearded mountain man somehow reached into my soul, found the one comfort food I’ve denied myself for years, and served it with a side of blunt annoyance.

I take one bite.

And I literally moan.

It’s not sexy.

Not intentionally.

It’s just involuntary.

My taste buds have a religious awakening.

“Oh my God,” I whisper around the mouthful. “I haven’t had this in years.”

His brows lift like he’s offended on Nutella’s behalf.

“Why?” he asks. “You don’t like it?”