Page 31 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

This is—holy shit.

His signature.

The Lumberjack Artist.

My lungs forget how to work for a full second.

Oh my God.

No.

No, no, no.

Because if this is who I think it is—then I didn’t just get rescued by a mountain man.

I got rescued by the man I drove into a thunderstorm to find.

Chapter 5

Greyson

I fill the kettle at the sink, letting the water run until it turns ice cold, like that’s going to rinse the last five minutes off my skin.

Storm. Bear. Screaming. Mud.

A woman in designer heels—on my mountain—clinging to my arm like I’m the only stable thing left in her world.

My world does not include women.

It doesn’t include company, either.

That’s the whole point.

I set the kettle on the stove with more force than necessary and glare at it like it’s responsible for the problem currently dripping in my mudroom.

Then I reach for the tea.

Because I’m not an idiot or a fucking caveman.

She’s soaked to the bone, shaken up, and if I don’t get something warm into her, she’s going to crash hard.

I grab the old metal pot with the mesh insert—scratched, dented, familiar—and dump in a generous handful of tea leaves.

Am I usually a tea guy?

Yes, I am. Fuck you very much.

I drink coffee in the morning because I’m not a psychopath and I do, in fact, need my brain to boot up.

But tea is my go-to the rest of the day.

Coffee leaves a weird taste in my mouth after the first cup.

Tea doesn’t.

Tea settles.

Tea warms.