Page 62 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Gravel crunches.

A door slams.

Then a voice calls out—bright and friendly.

Not a man.

A woman.

My stomach drops.

I run to the window and see her.

The woman. The pretty, and oh my, pregnant woman, from the way she cradles her belly with one hand.

Is he involved with someone? Oh my God, am I the other woman?!

Then she speaks to someone, “Careful, babe—watch the step!”

Oh.

Oh no.

My mouth goes dry.

She is not alone.

I turn and step away fast, pretending like I’m not about to witness—or star in—a crime of passion.

The front door opens, and cold mountain air rushes in.

A woman steps inside with rosy cheeks and a thick knit hat, bundled in a coat that still manages to look cute.

She’s visibly pregnant—hands automatically cradling her belly as she kicks mud from her boots.

Behind her is an enormous, gruff-looking man who fills the doorway like a boulder with shoulders.

Beard. Broad chest. The kind of presence that makes the cabin feel smaller.

They both look comfortable here.

Like this isn’t their first time.

Like they belong.

My heart does something stupid and painful.

“Hi! I’m Willow,” she says. “This is my husband, Thatcher. Grey told us you needed a ride.”

“Uh,” I gulp. “I-I’m Clara.”

I try to handle introductions like a normal human, but my brain—my traitorous writer brain—starts assembling a narrative at lightning speed.

Willow.

Willow trees everywhere on everything he makes.

On leather. On wood. Coats. Belts. Purses. Bookshelves.