Page 26 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

My feet are bare and my toenail polish—my perfect Cherry Bomb polish—is ruined by dirt.

I have never looked less like the version of myself Geoff posted on Instagram.

Good.

Let him keep the polished Clara. He can marry that—whoever the hell she is.

This Clara is currently fighting for her life—and she doesn’t give a fuck what she looks like.

The mountain man turns away, shrugging off his coat.

Water splatters on the floor.

His shoulders flex under his shirt, and I immediately make the mistake of noticing that he’s built like he chops wood for fun.

Which he probably does.

Because, of course, he does.

My pulse skitters. I shove it down.

He pauses at a door that leads deeper into the cabin—warm light glows under the crack.

“Take off your things. Wait here,” he grunts.

My mouth opens automatically.

“Yep. I’m not going anywhere,” I say, and the sarcasm comes out on instinct because I’m panicking and sarcasm is my emotional support animal.

He doesn’t even look back.

The door opens. Warmth spills out.

He disappears.

I sit there, drenched and trembling, listening.

The storm is still raging outside, pounding the cabin like it’s trying to break in.

And I realize with a sick twist that I’m alone in a strange man’s house.

A strange man who carried me.

A strange man who yelled at a bear like it was a dog that peed on his rug.

A strange man who could be a serial killer.

Or worse.

My brain tries to spiral, and I clamp down on it.

Okay. Breathe.

This is fine.

This is—the door swings open again, and he’s back.

He’s carrying a laundry basket in one hand like it weighs nothing, and his dark brows are drawn together as he looks at me.