Page 94 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Her family life? Vastly different from mine.

She’s smart. She graduated from NYU. English lit. Creative writing. Journalism—the old-school kind that cares about truth more than traffic.

And I’ve been reading her blog.

Every damn post from the last eight months.

She’s good.

Real good.

Honest in a way that makes your throat tighten because she doesn’t sugarcoat the hard parts.

She writes about city life like she’s both in love with it and suffocating under it.

And last but not least—when I was cleaning the cabin, I found her panties in the towel pile she left behind.

I’d be embarrassed to admit what I’ve done with them since.

Truth is, I haven’t stopped thinking about her.

About the way she felt in my arms.

In my bed.

Soft and warm and real against me.

I’ve taken myself in hand more times this week than I have all year.

Because every time I close my eyes, I see her.

And now she’s here.

Walking toward the Lunchroom in cropped jeans that hug every curve in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

An oversized sweatshirt with giant lemons on it hangs off one shoulder like she didn’t try too hard—and somehow that makes it worse.

And those ugly yellow Crocs.

They get stuck in the mud halfway across the lot.

She stumbles slightly, reaching out for balance.

She rights herself quickly, brushing mud from those ridiculous yellow Crocs like nothing happened.

Like she didn’t just knock the wind out of me by existing.

I sit there in my truck longer than I should.

Watching her through the windshield.

Watching the way she laughs at something Willow says.

The way she tucks her hair behind her ear.

The way she moves like she belongs here.

She steals my breath.