Page 41 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

The kind I maybe saw in those viral videos—steady as they carve, sure as they etch.

My chest tightens.

I set my sandwich down again and force myself to sound casual.

“You make things,” I say, as if it’s a guess.

As if I didn’t see the willow trees in his mudroom.

As if I didn’t drive into a thunderstorm because I needed whatever the person behind those designs had.

His eyes sharpen.

“Yeah,” he says carefully. “Why?”

My heart stutters.

This is the moment.

I can either jump right in and blow it. Or I can keep the small talk going until I’m brave enough to say the truth.

So I try to straddle the line—honesty wrapped in softness.

“I saw some designs online,” I say slowly. “They were… willow trees. Sunsets. Carved into leather and wood and iron.”

His body goes still.

Not like he’s relaxed.

Like he’s bracing.

I keep my voice gentle, because suddenly I understand something.

This isn’t just an invasion of privacy. This is a trespass.

A possible violation of the protection he’s afforded me already.

“They were beautiful,” I add. “They made me feel?—”

His gaze locks onto mine. His black eyes are glittering with an impossible intensity.

“What? What did they make you feel?” he asks, voice low, “And what exactly are you doing on my mountain, Clara Belle?”

My mouth goes dry. Because now I have to answer.

And I’m not sure which scares me more.

That Greyson might be the Lumberjack Artist.

Or if he isn’t, that I drove into a storm for nothing but my own heartbreak.

Chapter 7

Greyson

“Leave the dishes,” I say, voice like gravel. “You can take the bedroom.”

I don’t wait for her answer.