Page 98 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“That,” he says immediately, nodding hard like he’s grateful I gave him a script. “Yes. That.”

I can’t help smiling. “Okay then. Yes, I accept.”

His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile, too.

“What time?” I ask.

He blinks. “Time?”

I raise a brow. “This is usually how dates work, Greyson.”

He exhales a rough laugh, like he can’t believe he’s this out of practice. “Seven?”

“Seven,” I repeat, testing it. “Sure. I’ll be ready.”

And then he smiles.

Not a smirk. Not a guarded half-expression.

A real, genuine smile that transforms his whole face.

Holy shit.

My heart actually stops for a second, then restarts at a faster pace like it’s trying to make up for lost time.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he says, voice low like it means something.

“Okay,” I whisper.

He doesn’t let go of my hand right away.

He steps closer instead, and my breath catches because suddenly he’s in my space again and my body remembers everything.

“And Clara?” he says.

“Yeah?” My voice comes out too soft.

His gaze drops to my shoes—those ridiculous yellow Crocs—and then back up to my face.

“Wear something yellow,” he murmurs.

I swallow. My throat goes tight in the most inconvenient way.

“Okay,” I manage, nodding.

Something warm flickers in his eyes—something like satisfaction, like he just claimed a tiny piece of me, and it feels right.

Then he finally releases my hand.

And he’s gone—striding away like a man who can’t afford to look back.

Except, I do look.

Oh, I look.

Because watching Greyson Cole walk away in a pair of worn Levi’s should be illegal in at least twelve states.

My brain is still spinning when I turn and practically sprint back inside the Lunchroom.