Page 17 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Besides, I have pepper spray and despite being pleasantly plump, I’ve taken several advanced self-defense courses.

“Can you talk?” I ask, wondering if maybe this man is mute.

I stop in my tracks, blinking through the rain. He’s so big, and his facial hair hides most of him from me, but his eyes.

They’re dark and glittering down at me, like he’s mad for some reason.

I swallow.

Then he speaks.

“Go back the way you came. This is private property.”

“O-okay, I know this is insane, but my car died and I have no signal and I’m, I’m kind of stranded.”

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak again.

Just stares at me like I’m a problem he didn’t ask for.

I swallow hard and push through the humiliation.

“Please,” I add, because pride is useless in a thunderstorm. “I need help.”

The man’s jaw tightens.

His eyes flick over me once more—sharp, assessing.

Then he responds, voice low and rough enough to scrape.

“Just what the hell are you doing out here?”

My laugh comes out shaky, bordering on hysterical.

“I-I made a series of questionable life choices,” I admit almost hysterically.

And something shifts in his expression—something small and dangerous, like amusement he doesn’t want to allow.

I take another step closer, rain dripping off my eyelashes.

“I’m Clara,” I say quickly, like names make strangers less scary. “Clara Belle. And I’m?—”

I almost say fine, because that’s what women like me are trained to say.

But I’m not fine.

I’m cold.

I’m scared.

And I’m standing in the middle of nowhere, staring at a gruff, beard-covered, annoyingly sexy mountain hermit who might be my only shot at not freezing to death.

So I tell the truth instead.

“Look, mister, I’m desperate,” I whisper. “And I really need you to help me. I can pay.”

Chapter 3