Page 103 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Greyson and I are walking between carnival booths, our shoulders brushing every few steps like neither of us wants to admit we’re doing it on purpose.

There’s music playing somewhere—off-key, slightly too loud—and kids are running past with sticky fingers and neon prizes.

I can’t remember the last time I laughed this much on a date.

With Geoffrey, everything had been managed.

Reservations at places where the plates were art installations, and the lighting was optimized for flattering photographs.

Conversations about market positioning and partnerships.

Subtle nudges about how I could mention his name in a post.

Who I should sit next to.

What I should order.

Even when he smiled at me, it felt like he was calculating something.

With Greyson?

He bought me pizza and pasta and even spoon fed me bites from his plate like we were a real couple.

He wiped iced tea out of his beard with absolutely zero self-consciousness after I made him laugh mid-sip—and he didn’t blame me either.

He even told me I’m a writer like it was a fact, not a fragile wish.

Untamed.

Unplanned.

Perfect.

The evening breeze is cool, but it’s warm enough I don’t need more than a light sweater.

Spring is unpredictable here. A real in like a lion, out like a lamb sort of thing.

We stop at one of those ridiculous ring-toss games.

Greyson studies the bottles like they’ve personally offended him.

“You think you can win?” I tease.

“I don’t think,” he mutters. “I do.”

I laugh.

He throws the first ring. Misses.

I raise a brow.

He narrows his eyes like the booth itself has insulted his honor.

The next toss lands perfectly around the neck of a bottle.

The bored teenage attendant blinks. “Uh. Okay.”

Greyson doesn’t even look smug. He just turns to me.