Page 137 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

We’ve parked, and we’re walking toward the stands.

I can see Kelly and Willow already.

Thatcher’s on the field in a matching cap and a McCrae Lumber & Sawmill T-shirt.

Of course, because he sponsors and coaches the team.

I grin. He looks right where he belongs.

“Um, nothing,” I say automatically.

Lie.

I swallow.

“I was just wondering how long it’ll take Kelly’s place to sell,” I add, deciding to go for broke.

He slows slightly.

“What?”

“She called a realtor this morning. Put the house on the market. I guess living with someone for twenty something years puts its mark on a place.”

He goes quiet.

And my stomach drops.

Did I say something wrong?

A cluster of parents around our age glance at us as we walk by.

Curious. Assessing. I can feel it—small-town radar activating.

Then a woman peels away from the group.

Blonde. Glossy. Pretty. No wedding ring.

“Greyson Cole? As I live and breathe,” she calls, smiling like she’s remembering something private. “I was wondering what you’ve been up to all winter.”

Something sharp and ugly flares in my chest.

It’s bright fucking green.

And it has teeth.

Jealousy.

“Misty,” he says with a curt nod.

That’s it.

No introduction.

No, “This is Clara.”

He just keeps walking.

And I follow.