Page 28 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

He glances back over his shoulder, eyes sharp.

“For now,” he confirms. “Until the storm eases. Then we deal with your car.”

“My—” I swallow. “My Tesla.”

His face does something again—something that looks suspiciously like disdain.

Of course it does.

Because, of course, my dead Tesla is the most offensive thing he’s encountered all day.

I clutch the towel tighter and force a breath.

“Okay,” I say, trying for calm. “Okay. Thank you.”

He doesn’t respond to that.

Just steps toward a set of hooks on the wall and grabs another towel.

He tosses it at me without warning.

It lands in my lap.

I yelp.

His mouth twitches.

“Use that on your hair,” he says.

Then, like he’s afraid of what happens if he stays in this small room with me and my dripping city-girl chaos, he heads toward the inner door again.

I blurt the first thing my brain produces—because silence makes me nervous and I need to fill it with something.

“Wait,” I say.

He pauses.

“What,” he grunts, not turning around.

My throat tightens. I grip the towel like a lifeline.

“I’m Clara,” I say, because something about sitting here—dripping and barefoot and entirely at his mercy—makes stranger feel too dangerous. “Clara Belle.”

He turns slowly, like the movement takes effort.

Like he has to decide whether giving me anything—his attention, his name, even one shred of basic human connection—is worth the risk.

His gaze catches mine and holds.

There’s something in his eyes that makes my stomach dip.

Old.

Guarded.

Wary in a way that’s not just caution—it’s experience.

Like he’s learned the hard way what letting people in costs.