Page 141 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I don’t make small talk.

“So,” I say, staring out toward the tree line. “Did Clara say anything to you today?”

Why beat around the bush?

Willow and Thatcher exchange a look.

The kind that makes my stomach drop.

“Define ‘anything,’” Willow says carefully.

I scrub a hand through my hair.

“I don’t know,” I mutter. “When she left, it just felt off.”

Thatcher snorts lightly. “That’s helpful, Grey.”

“I’m serious,” I snap, more sharply than I mean to.

I take another drink to cool it.

“She didn’t seem herself,” I continue. “It was like…” I struggle for the word. “Like she was somewhere else.”

Willow closes her book.

“Well, she seemed concerned when Kelly talked about selling the house,” she says slowly.

“Yeah. She told me that Kelly put it on the market.”

“And?” Willow presses.

“And what?” I shoot back.

“And how did you react?” Willow asks, eyebrows raised expectantly and looking at me like I’m a fucking idiot.

“I just said ‘what?’” I reply defensively.

Thatcher huffs a quiet laugh.

“That’s not what she’s asking,” he says.

I grind my teeth.

“I didn’t react,” I admit. “I just processed it.”

Willow tilts her head.

“Greyson,” she says gently, “you don’t exactly have the most reassuring face when you’re processing things.”

“Meaning?” I ask.

“Meaning you look like you’re calculating escape routes.”

That hits.

Harder than I expect.

Thatcher flips a piece of corn and leans against the grill.