Page 68 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“Actually, yeah.” I shrug because they are super comfy.

But still, my heart squeezes because now I understand why he’s pushing me out the door in such a nonchalant way.

I was just a body in the dark.

Just something to scratch that irritating biological itch.

He wouldn’t have stayed to say goodbye. Not when he had to call them to help me.

If Willow here is his secret muse, then seeing this woman must stir old feelings.

It shouldn’t matter so much. I don’t know him. Not really.

What do I care if he used me?

I used him too. Didn’t I?

Shit.

Willow’s eyes narrow—just slightly—like she’s reading the story playing on my face.

“Hold on,” she says, lifting a hand. “I can see you writing a whole book in your head right now, and I’m pretty sure you’ve got it wrong.”

I blink. “What?”

She smiles like she’s dealt with overthinking women before.

Like she knows exactly how to interrupt the doom loop.

Thatcher sets a box on the counter with a solid thunk.

It smells like actual heaven—bacon, pastries, something sweet and buttery.

Willow nods toward it.

“We brought some food for Grey. He usually stops in once a week, but it’s been a minute.”

I stare at the box like it might save me from myself.

Willow keeps talking, cheerful and steady.

“I run a little breakfast/lunch stop at the sawmill on the other side of the mountain. It’s attached to the mill—feeds the guys, keeps them from eating nothing but gas station jerky.”

“That’s nice,” I say automatically, because my manners are on autopilot even when my heart is in pieces.

“It is,” she agrees, then steps closer and lowers her voice like we’re conspirators. “And you look like you need food and a conversation before you drive off thinking Greyson is a heartless old mountain goat.”

My eyes widen. “I didn’t?—”

“You do,” she says kindly. “And it’s okay. You wouldn’t be the first—oh my God, I did not mean that how it sounded! You are absolutely the first woman we’ve ever seen here. Not that we would have reason to. Okay, I’m gonna shut up now..”

Thatcher clears his throat, glancing toward the hallway like he expects Greyson to appear any second and scowl them all into silence.

Willow tilts her head.

“So, um, come on,” she says, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go. We’ll stop at the Lunchroom—that’s what we call it—and we’ll eat and chat. You can tell me how you ended up on Greyson’s mountain in a thunderstorm—because I’m dying to hear that story—and I can tell you why he’s acting like an ass this morning.”

My throat tightens again, but this time it isn’t pure hurt.