Page 23 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“Cold!” she cries, hopping once.

“No kidding.”

I scoop her up again before she can face-plant, because she’s already unsteady, and the storm is getting worse by the second.

She stiffens in my arms.

Her breath hits my throat in warm puffs—fuck, it feels good.

She lets out a startled sound and clutches at my coat, fingers digging in like she’s afraid I’ll drop her.

Her body is lighter than it looks, though she feels solid, heavy—real.

Warm where it counts.

Shaking all over.

And too damn close.

She stares down at her stuck heels, horrified.

“My shoes?—”

I flex my arm around her waist before she can even think about bending to try to fight the mud again.

“Forget the shoes.”

“They’re—”

“They’re done.”

She huffs.

“Where are you taking me?” she demands, trying for angry but landing on shaky.

I look down at her—mud on her cheek, eyelashes wet, eyes fierce even when she’s scared—and every instinct I have says leave her.

Every human part of me says you can’t.

“I’m taking you somewhere you won’t get eaten by a bear,” I tell her.

“And where is that?”

I start walking, boots stomping through mud and water, flashlight beam bouncing with each step.

“My cabin,” I say tightly. “And you’re going to keep your damn voice down before that damn bear changes his mind and comes back.”

Her eyes widen.

“Your—your cabin? With you?”

“Unless you’d like to try your luck sleeping in the mud with Scar on the prowl,” I answer, not slowing.

She lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half helpless sound.

So I keep moving, because the storm is winning, and I’m not leaving a gorgeous, infuriating city slicker to fend for herself on my mountain.

Not with a bear watching from the trees.