Page 81 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“No. I’m not interested in your explanation. Just, you know what? Screw you, Greyson Cole!”

She storms around the back, and I stand there.

Feeling like an asshole.

Because I am an asshole.

And the worst part?

She’s right.

I don’t get a say in where she goes. In how she spends her time. Or who with.

And fuck, I sure as hell am not about to admit how much that bugs me.

Truth is, I chased her away because I was scared.

Because I wanted her, and that terrified me more than any mountain or bear ever has.

Letting her in? Letting her stay? That would mean risking something.

And I’ve built my entire life around not risking anything that can leave.

I wipe the water from my face slowly.

The whole room is watching.

Willow looks like she’s trying not to smile.

Thatcher—who must have come in at some point—leans against the wall like he’s witnessing a bar fight he absolutely approves of.

I stare after Clara.

Wishing I could still see her face.

She’s in the back, stacking cups or something, and every now and then I catch her elbow or her yellow clad foot.

Instead of seeing a city slicker, I see a woman who drove into a storm to find something.

A woman who’d been hurt and was brave enough to go off on her own.

A woman who chose to spend the night with a stranger, eyes wide open.

Who is courageous enough to try to live life to its fullest.

Clara didn’t just take my shitty attitude, and careless insults like she deserved them.

Nope. Not her. No way.

She threw water in my face instead of shrinking. She told me off.

Called me on my shit in public—and fuck that just makes my chest tighten again.

But not with anger.

With something worse.

Respect.