Page 70 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“You did,” Willow sings.

He grunts. “That was just some wind in my eye.”

I sit in the backseat, wrapped in Greyson’s flannel like it’s armor and comfort at the same time, and I don’t speak much.

Not because I can’t—but because I’m trying not to let the ache in my chest show on my face.

I keep thinking of this morning.

Greyson’s cold voice.

The way he didn’t look back.

The way he handed me a practiced goodbye like it was a receipt.

And then Willow appeared at his cabin door like a ray of sunshine with a box of food and a truth-telling smile, and the story I’d built in my head cracked.

Not completely.

But enough to make me want answers.

Willow glances back at me. “You okay back there, Clara?”

I force a smile. “I’m okay.”

Thatcher’s eyes flick up to the rearview mirror for half a second—sharp, assessing.

Like he knows I’m not okay.

Like he knows exactly why.

Then he returns his gaze to the road and pretends he didn’t see anything.

Which I appreciate.

Willow keeps chatting, filling the truck with warmth.

She tells me about the sawmill, about the Lunchroom she runs, about the townspeople who treat her like family.

She talks like she loves her life out here in a way that makes my chest feel strange—tight and hopeful and wistful all at once.

And something about her accent tugs at my attention.

It’s not Maine.

Not even close.

So when we finally pull into a gravel lot beside a long building that smells faintly of pine and sawdust, I ask before I can overthink it.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

Willow snorts like I just asked if water is wet. “Nah. I’m from Jersey.”

I blink. “Jersey? Like… New Jersey?”

She grins. “Yup. Like Taylor ham vs. pork roll New Jersey.”

I laugh despite myself.