Page 78 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

It didn’t.

If anything, it made it worse.

My agent cried when I showed it to her over FaceTime this morning. Actually cried.

Said it was “a departure,” said it felt “hopeful,” said collectors were going to lose their minds over it.

I hung up before she could ask what inspired it.

I know what inspired it.

And she’s probably safely tucked back in her world by now.

Back to cocktail parties and rooftop views and blinding lights bouncing off glass towers.

Back to mic’d-up interviews and glittering streets in New York City.

Back to her curated life where men wear tailored suits and don’t growl at bears.

Back to everything that makes sense for her.

Not this mountain.

Not me.

By the time I stalk into the Lunchroom, I’m hungry, tired, and meaner than usual.

I haven’t shaved. Haven’t bothered trimming my hair.

I look like a warning label.

The place smells like bacon and coffee and fresh bread.

I nod at guys I recognize from the sawmill. Thatcher runs a tight ship, and they’re all alright.

But then I freeze.

Because the last person I expect to see is sitting at the end table—my table.

Clara Belle.

Just sitting and drinking coffee like she belongs there.

I knew it the first time I saw her. This woman is Trouble—capital T intended.

I stop dead in the doorway.

My eyes narrow on instinct, but my body doesn’t get the memo.

My chest squeezes tight, painful and sudden.

And my dick—traitorous bastard—thumps hard behind my zipper like it’s been waiting all week for this exact moment.

Fuck.

She looks good.

Soft and curvy and real.