Page 60 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

The sheets are still warm where he was, which makes it worse, honestly.

Outside, the world is bright and calm.

Like yesterday’s thunderstorm didn’t happen.

Like I didn’t almost die on a mountain road and end up in a stranger’s arms—and then in his bed.

I sit up, hair a mess, heart doing that stupid, hopeful flutter even though I know better.

The bedroom door opens and Greyson steps in, fully dressed.

Boots. Jeans. A heavy flannel—this one’s a dark green and blue plaid.

His hair is tied back like he’s trying to contain himself.

He doesn’t look at the bed like it holds memories.

He looks at it like it’s a job he’s already finished.

His eyes flick to me—fast, impersonal—then away.

“I got someone coming for you,” he says, gruff. “They’ll be here soon. Then a tow will be by to get your car.”

I blink, still half asleep. “Someone is coming for me?”

He doesn’t answer the question.

Of course he doesn’t.

“Clothes are on the bed,” he adds, nodding toward a neat pile like I’m a package he’s prepared for pickup. “Coffee’s on the stove.”

My throat tightens.

The words land like cold water.

Not even a good morning.

Not even a you okay?

Just logistics.

Just management.

My chest squeezes, sharp and humiliating.

“Wait,” I say, because I can’t not. “Where are you going?”

He pauses at the doorway like the question annoys him.

“I have work to do,” he replies, voice dark, and then he’s gone without a backward glance.

The click of the door feels final.

And for a second I just sit there, staring at the empty doorway like an idiot.

Like a teenager who believed a kiss meant something more than it did.

Except I’m not eighteen.