Page 177 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

The city blurs by.

Her hand resting lightly on my thigh in the back of the limo.

The driver pulls up to the gallery entrance.

Lights. Cameras.

A small but very real line of photographers gathered behind velvet ropes.

My agent stands just inside the doorway, scanning for me.

The door opens.

Cool evening air and the sounds of Manhattan rush in.

The driver stands, holds the door open—waiting.

I don’t move.

Instead, I turn to her.

“Clara—”

She looks up immediately, eyes bright, searching my face.

“Yeah? Are you okay?” she asks softly.

I probably look unhinged.

Because I feel unhinged.

“Yeah,” I say, though my pulse is hammering. “Before we go in there… I have something I need to say to you.”

Her expression shifts—curious, steady.

“What is it?”

I reach for the ring in my pocket—and that’s when my agent barrels toward us.

“Greyson! Come on, they’re waiting,” she hisses urgently.

The flashes are already going off.

Paparazzi shouting my name.

The pseudonym.

“GCM! Look this way!”

“Is it true? Are you the Lumberjack Artist?”

I want to slam the door.

Tell the driver to go.

Take her back to the hotel.

Back to privacy. Back to the mountain.