Page 58 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

There’s a pause.

Then a low chuckle.

“A damsel,” he repeats like he’s savoring it. “On your mountain.”

“Don’t fucking start,” I warn.

“You finally get lonely up there?” he asks, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Decide to order one off the internet?”

“Fuck you, Thatch.”

He laughs like that’s his favorite thing in the world. “So what do you want me to do about it?”

I grip the radio tighter.

“Her car’s dead on the road,” I say. “Battery. She tried to drive a Tesla up here in a storm like she’s got a death wish.”

“That’s your type now?” he says, amused. “City girls with expensive problems?”

“She’s not my anything,” I snap, too fast, too sharp.

Thatcher goes quiet for half a second—the kind of quiet that means he heard me, heard the edge under the words.

Then he hums like he’s entertained.

“Uh-huh.”

I grit my teeth.

“Come get her,” I say. “Bring your truck. We’ll pull the car out later. She—” My throat tightens around the next words. “She doesn’t belong here.”

The line crackles.

“She at the cabin now?” Thatcher asks, the teasing fading into something more serious.

“Yeah. You know the coordinates,” I grunt because he does.

He knows all the usual landmarks, the way you do when you live off-grid—because he does too.

But it’s been a minute, so I repeat them with the practiced ease of someone who’s had to guide people in before.

He listens without interrupting.

When I finish, he says, “I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Make it quick,” I reply.

A pause.

Then, softer, “You okay, Greyson?”

The question hits harder than it should.

I swallow and stare out at the bright morning, at the mountain pretending it didn’t almost swallow someone whole last night.

“I’m fine,” I say, because that’s what men like me say when we’re anything but. “Bring Willow. She might feel better with another woman in the truck.”

So will I, but I don’t add that.