Page 168 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

She prefers trashy reality TV over sitcoms. Claims it’s anthropological research.

She writes best in the early afternoon with instrumental music playing low.

Each detail just opens another door.

Another layer.

Another reason I’m hooked.

A lifetime won’t be enough to learn her.

And I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting more.

I try to show her every day.

In small ways.

Fixing a hinge.

Carrying groceries.

Kissing her shoulder when she’s distracted.

Just me, showing up.

But there’s something I haven’t told her yet.

Something big.

And tonight’s the night.

She’s standing at the kitchen island, reorganizing paint batches and laughing at something on her phone when I clear my throat.

“Hey,” I say casually, which immediately makes her suspicious.

She turns slowly, eyebrow arching.

“Hey, yourself. Um, why do you sound like you’re about to confess to arson?”

“I do not.”

“Greyson.”

I rub the back of my neck.

“What are you doing this weekend?” I ask.

She narrows her eyes. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Well, see, I have to fly out to the city.”

Her posture stills.

“The city?”

“Yeah.” I shift my weight. “Manhattan.”

She sets the phone down slowly.