Page 83 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“Come on, Greyson,” he says, like he’s doing me a favor I don’t deserve. “Let’s go have a chat.”

I blink at him.

“I’m fine,” I mutter automatically, because I’m an idiot and that’s what idiots say when they’re bleeding emotionally in public.

Thatcher’s stare doesn’t waver.

“No, you’re not.”

Willow clears her throat from behind the counter.

“Go on,” she says, like she’s giving me permission to stop embarrassing myself. “Before I dump the coffee pot on your head too.”

Clara makes a sound—half laugh, half scoff—like she can’t believe this is her life.

My chest aches at that sound.

I don’t want to cause any more of a scene than I already have.

Clara doesn’t deserve that.

Not here. Not now. Not ever.

And—worse—I follow him because I’m a nosy sonovabitch. And I want answers.

I want to know what she’s been doing all week.

Where she’s been sleeping.

Who she’s been sleeping with.

If she’s been laughing with Willow.

If she’s already moved on, like the other night was just a storm story.

If she’s been thinking about me the way I’ve been thinking about her.

So I give Clara one last look—one I hope says I’m not done, I’m not leaving, I’m just trying not to ruin this any more than I already have.

Then I nod once and follow Thatcher out the side door.

Cold air hits my wet face like a slap.

Thatcher walks ahead of me toward the back of the building where the sawdust piles up and the noise from the mill is distant.

He doesn’t speak until we’re out of earshot.

Then he stops and turns.

His eyes sweep over me—my soaked beard, my clenched fists, my whole rigid posture—and he shakes his head slowly.

“You about done acting like a jackass?” he asks.

“I wasn’t—” I start.

Thatcher lifts one hand.

“Really? You wanna tell me what happened in there was anything but reaction and stupidity?.”