Page 21 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Not on purpose.

It’s a startled sound because her heels sink, the mud sucks, and she loses her balance completely.

She tries to move forward, but the road grabs her like it’s hungry.

And then she grabs me.

Her hand clamps onto my forearm with surprising strength, panic giving her grip teeth, and she yanks.

“Wait,” I growl, but again I’m too late.

So, of course, I go down with her.

Hard.

We hit the mud with a wet slap that I’m going to feel in my spine tomorrow.

For a second, my brain short-circuits.

Because she’s beneath me—warm despite the cold, soft where I’m hard, curves pressed up against my chest and thighs—and it’s been too damn long since I’ve felt a woman’s body that close.

The shock of it is visceral.

A jolt straight through my system.

Want.

Memory.

Instinct.

Desire.

I shove it down so fast it leaves a bruise.

“Goddamn it,” I snarl, more at myself than her.

She’s blinking up at me, eyes wide, breath coming out in little gasps, lips parted like she’s about to apologize and insult me in the same sentence.

Mud streaks her cheek.

It should make her look ridiculous.

Somehow it doesn’t.

Somehow she’s still gorgeous.

Which is inconvenient as hell.

I push up off her, planting my hands in the muck, ignoring the cold seeping into my palms. The storm spits sleet into my face like it’s laughing.

“Stay. Still,” I order.

“B-but my shoe—” she starts, voice cracking.

“I said, stay still.”

I look for Scar.