Page 40 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Heat crawls up my neck again.

I clear my throat and pick up my sandwich, because apparently I’m going to cope by eating like this is a casual lunch date instead of a survival situation.

“So,” I say, forcing lightness. “Do you, um, live up here full-time?”

“Mm.”

That’s it.

That’s the answer.

I try again.

“Don’t you ever get lonely?”

His gaze narrows, like he doesn’t like the question.

“No.”

Okay. Great. Love that honesty.

My brain scrambles for safer territory.

“My name is kind of ridiculous,” I say, gesturing vaguely at myself. “Clara Belle. It sounds like a Disney character. My mom insisted.”

A beat.

Then—impossibly—his mouth twitches.

Not a smile.

But something close.

“You don’t look like any Disney princess I ever saw,” he says.

My smile drops.

“That’s not a criticism, Clara. I just meant that you don’t look fake or fragile or like you need to wait for some asshat prince to step up and rescue you. You look like the kind of woman who can save herself.”

I snort. “Says the man who just rescued me from a bear and mud.”

That earns me a huff that might be a laugh if he weren’t so determined to be grumpy.

Good. We’re talking. We’re human-ing.

“You would’ve figured it out. I have faith in you.”

God, that warms something inside of me.

Now, inch closer.

I glance down at his hands.

His hands are hands.

Rough. Callused. Strong.

The kind of hands you can’t fake.