Page 133 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I just stopped running.

And we haven’t even defined this yet.

I’m a fucking idiot, sitting here imagining forever.

“Jesus,” I mutter.

I check the clock on the wall.

Shit.

I gotta go.

I scrub my hands clean, peel off my gloves, and swap into a clean flannel.

Slightly less musty.

Slightly more presentable.

When I step outside, the air is crisp and bright.

No storm clouds. No warnings.

Just a clear Maine afternoon in late March.

I lock up the workshop and head for the truck.

Today, isn’t about art. Or the past.

It isn’t about galleries. Or my fucking baggage.

It’s about showing up.

For a kid whose dad didn’t.

For a woman who’s learning to believe she can want more.

For myself.

When I pull into Kelly’s driveway, Clara’s already outside, sunglasses perched on her nose, hair pulled into a messy ponytail.

She’s wearing cropped jeans and a soft tee with one of my borrowed flannels wrapped around her waist.

Those ugly yellow Crocs on her feet.

I grin.

I like her in my clothes.

Like her better without them, really.

I have to tell my dick to settle down while I shift into park.

She smiles when she sees me.

And something in my chest loosens.

I hop out of my truck and circle the front till I’m standing right in front of her before I can even think about stopping myself.