Page 47 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I pull back just enough to look at her, breath rough, forehead almost touching hers.

“Fuck, I knew you were gonna be trouble when I saw you,” I tell her, like it’s an accusation.

Her mouth curves—small, trembling, beautiful. “So are you.”

I huff something that might be a laugh if my body wasn’t on fire.

Then I kiss the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her jaw—slow, deliberate, like I’m learning her.

Like I’m imprinting her on my memory in case I have to force myself to let her go in the morning.

She tilts her head, granting me access, and the trust in that simple motion does something to my chest I don’t have a name for.

My hands slide to the knot of the robe belt.

I pause.

I look at her again, making sure.

“Last chance,” I say, rough. “You sure?”

Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging just enough to make my vision spark.

“Yes,” she breathes. “I’m sure.”

The last piece of restraint I have left crumbles.

I lift her into my arms again, and this time I don’t stop at the counter.

I carry her down the short hallway toward the bedroom, the storm raging outside like it’s furious I’m choosing warmth over solitude.

She clings to me, mouth against my throat, kisses turning my skin into a live wire.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone.

Not even for a second.

Chapter 8

Clara

I can’t believe this is happening to me.

Not because I’m some delicate, innocent thing—please. I’m thirty-five.

I pay taxes.

I’ve had sex.

I’ve made decisions sober that my friends would call questionable but iconic.

But this? This is the kind of moment that only happens to women in books.

The kind of moment that feels too cinematic to be real—like the universe accidentally hit shuffle and landed on a scene that should’ve come with a warning label.

And yet here I am, pressed against the solid heat of Greyson’s body as he carries me down a narrow hallway like I weigh nothing.

His strength isn’t showy.