Page 57 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

It’s because she’s funny. Smart. Honest in a way that catches you off guard.

She doesn’t shrink.

She doesn’t pretend—not when she’s talking to me.

She looks at me like I’m a person, not a spectacle.

And I’ve been alone a long time.

Long enough that the idea of a woman wanting to stay—wanting me—feels like a trick.

Women haven’t changed that much since the last time I tried to have one in my life.

They want things I can’t give. They want a future. They want normal.

They want out there.

So I don’t wait.

If I give myself time, I’ll falter.

I pull on yesterday’s jeans and a sweater, jam my feet into boots, and grab my coat from the hook.

The sun might be out, but the air still bites.

I head out to the shed where I keep the radio—old-school, reliable, the kind of thing that works when cell towers don’t.

The door creaks open, and cold air slaps my face, sobering me for half a second.

Good.

I need sober.

I need practical.

I need to do the right thing even if it feels like cutting my own damn hand off.

Inside the shed, I find the radio on the shelf where it always sits, dust it off, and flick it on.

Static crackles.

I adjust the dial until I get a signal.

Then I key the mic.

“Thatcher,” I say.

A beat.

“Thatcher, answer the fucking radio,” I growl.

Then his voice comes through, lazy and amused, like he’s been waiting his whole life for me to need something.

“Well, damn,” he drawls. “Didn’t think you still remembered how to talk to people, Grey.”

I close my eyes, already regretting this.

“I got a damsel in distress,” I say, voice clipped. “In need of rescue.”