Page 97 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I clarify.

“Are—are you asking me out?” I blurt, then cringe. “Like on a date?”

His dark eyes go wide, and it’s almost funny how startled he looks—like the word date never even entered his mind.

Like he just knew he didn’t want me gone and his caveman instincts translated that into be near her.

For a second I feel stupid.

Heat crawls up my neck.

I tug my hand, trying to slide free.

He tightens his grip—gentle but firm—like he can’t bear the thought of letting go.

Then he swallows, visibly gathering himself.

“Y-yes,” he says, rough. “I guess I am.”

His ears go slightly pink.

Which is unfair.

This man is absurdly hot.

Like almost offensively gorgeous.

And he’s standing here getting flustered like a shy teenage boy.

“Will you go out with me?” he asks, words coming faster now, like if he slows down he’ll lose his nerve. “Tonight?”

I blink at him.

Me? He really wants to ask me out?

Not some sleek woman who belongs in magazines and rooftop lounges. Not someone who makes sense on his arm if he ever had to step into the spotlight.

Me. Clara Belle. Recently single, currently living in a borrowed room, wearing another woman’s Crocs like it’s not a problem.

I feel a laugh bubble up, but it comes out soft.

“Okay,” I say, because I’m not going to pretend I don’t want to. “I’ll go out with you.”

His shoulders drop like he’s been holding his breath for a week.

“But,” I add quickly, because my sanity requires boundaries, “is this a real date?”

His brow furrows. “Real?”

“Like—” I gesture between us. “You’re going to pick me up from my place—Kelly’s place. We’re going to go somewhere public. Not just back to your cabin. Not redo whatever that was last week.”

His jaw flexes, like he feels the sting of that.

Good. He should.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “A real date.”

“And we’re going to do what?” I ask, trying to sound casual, even though my pulse is still going insane. “Eat dinner?”