Page 174 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Greyson does not.

He straightens, entirely unbothered, and nods at a straight-laced man in a tailored coat waiting just outside the small private hangar.

Your car.

Of course.

I barely have time to process that before I’m being ushered toward a sleek black limo parked on the tarmac like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Our luggage disappears.

The door closes.

The city unfolds outside the tinted windows.

I know this skyline.

I grew up in this skyline.

But sitting here beside Greyson, watching him look completely at ease, it feels different.

When we pull up to one of the most exclusive hotels in Manhattan, we don’t go through the main entrance.

No revolving doors.

No gawking tourists.

We’re directed through a private entrance, into a private elevator.

“I don’t like a lot of crowds or attention,” he explains quietly.

I nod. Because who does?

“That’s fair.”

When the elevator opens into the suite, I stop walking.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. A view of the city that costs more per night than most people’s rent.

Clean, understated luxury.

“Okay,” I say slowly.

Then I just go for it, because ultimately, that is who I am. I speak my mind. Can’t help it.

“My family has money. I’ve told you this. But holy shit. What is all this?”

He turns to me.

And for the first time since we landed, he looks vulnerable.

“Don’t get nervous,” he says carefully. “But I have money too. A lot of it.”

I blink.

That’s what he’s worried about?

“I don’t care about money, Grey.”