Page 27 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

His gaze rakes over my wet hair, my soaked coat, my shaking hands.

And his mouth does something—barely.

Not a smile.

More like he’s trying not to react.

“Jesus,” he mutters, like he can’t help himself. “You look like a drowned cat.”

I blink at him.

Then I lift my chin, because I may be freezing but I still have standards.

“Thanks,” I say. “That’s exactly the vibe I was going for.”

He huffs, and the sound is so close to a laugh it startles me.

Then he sets the basket down with a solid thump at my feet.

Inside are towels.

Thick ones. Fluffy ones.

The kind you get in fancy hotels and pretend you don’t like because you have pride.

And on top—a robe.

Dark. Heavy.

Probably his.

My stomach does a small, ridiculous flip.

He points at the basket like it’s a command.

“Take off your wet clothes. Dry off,” he says.

I stare at the robe, then at him.

My voice comes out smaller than I want. “I… I’m dripping everywhere.”

“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “I noticed.”

I should be offended.

But the truth is, I’m too relieved to be offended.

My fingers curl around the towel and it’s warm—he must’ve grabbed it from near a stove or something—and the heat against my skin makes my eyes sting.

He watches me for one long second, expression unreadable.

Then he turns away like he can’t stand looking at me like this.

And I hate how that makes my chest tighten.

“Look, you’re safe here,” he says, rough and reluctant, like the words taste strange in his mouth. “For now.”

“For now?” I repeat, because my mouth has no filter even in emergencies.