Page 88 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

And now it feels like he hates me.

Which—of course—because why wouldn’t my life be this obnoxiously ironic?

The Lunchroom hums around me, warm and busy.

A couple of guys come in for coffee.

Someone laughs at the counter.

Willow’s radio plays softly in the background—some country song about heartbreak that feels like it’s mocking me personally.

I’m wiping down a prep table when Willow sighs dramatically and leans back against the counter like her spine is made of cooked spaghetti.

“Clara,” she says, “you can finish up for the day. Lunch is easy. Chicken and dumplings are already in the big crock-pot. And we’re doing DIY turkey BLTs.”

I glance at her, then at the table that’s holding trays of fixings and two enormous crock pots.

“What about dessert? Need help with that?” I ask.

“What do you mean? Maybe I haven’t made any,” she teases.

“I can smell your apple crisp, Willow.”

And I can because holy hell this woman can cook.

Her eyes light up like I just told her she’s the most beautiful woman on earth.

“This baby must have a craving for apples,” she says, patting her belly. “I swear, I can’t get enough of them.”

“That baby is a genius,” I mutter, because the scent alone is making my mouth water.

Willow’s smile fades into something gentler. She watches me for a long second, too quiet.

“Seriously,” she says softly, “are you okay? I know the other day must have been hard with Greyson coming in here and saying all those things.”

My throat tightens instantly. The question lands too close to the truth.

“Who, me?” I say too fast, too bright. “Yeah. Of course. It was nothing.”

I turn my head so she won’t see the way my eyes sting.

Willow makes a sound—half snort, half sigh.

“Yeah, right. You suck at fibbing.”

Busted.

I set the cloth down carefully, like my hands might shake if I don’t.

“It’s just…” I start, then stop because my throat is already tight.

I inhale slowly, steadying myself.

“It’s true. I did come here to find the Lumberjack Artist.”

The confession comes out softer than I mean it to. Smaller.

Like I’m admitting to something reckless and a little pathetic instead of honest.