Page 102 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I order for us—Margherita base, sausage crumbles, fresh ricotta, blistered cherry tomatoes, basil.

Simple. Perfect.

When the pie arrives, it’s bubbling and fragrant, crust charred just right.

She takes one bite and closes her eyes.

“Oh my God,” she murmurs.

That sound does something to me that has nothing to do with pizza.

“Told you,” I say, watching her instead of my plate.

We split the pie.

Trade bites.

Talk.

Really talk.

About her time at NYU. About my grandfather.

About how she used to sneak into bookstores as a kid and rearrange displays just for fun.

About how I started carving because I needed something solid when everything else felt fake.

She tells me about the pressure of being a Belle’s daughter.

I tell her about being the kid shipped off because he didn’t fit the mold.

She laughs easily tonight.

Teases me about my lack of date protocol.

“You didn’t even open my door,” she says at one point, mock scandalized.

“I carried you through a thunderstorm and chased off a bear,” I counter. “I think I’ve earned one technicality.”

She rolls her eyes—but she’s smiling.

After dinner, I nod toward the truck.

“You up for one more stop?” I ask.

Her eyes light with curiosity. “Depends. Is it murder?”

“Not tonight,” I reply.

Chapter 20

Clara

Tonight feels like magic.

Not the polished, curated kind with reservation confirmations and strategic networking smiles.

The messy, glowing, breathless kind.