Page 73 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“Yeah, it was a rough night.”

Willow’s eyebrows lift. “Define rough.”

“I caught my fiancé cheating,” I say flatly.

Willow’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yep. He was boinking his secretary in my apartment, right on top of this awful marble kitchen island he made me buy!”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Nope! And he was such an ass about that island. Freaked out if I didn’t constantly wipe it clean.”

“What a fuckhead!”

“Yeah, he was a total fuckhead,” I say, and the word feels right. “So I left.”

“Well, Clara, that’s not rough,” Willow says, voice fierce. “That’s you being a queen.”

I choke a little on my burrito. “I don’t know about queen.”

Willow points at me. “A queen.”

I laugh, but it comes out shaky.

“Okay, so how’d you find Woodhaven?”

“Oh, well…” I hesitate, because here’s the part where I either sound insane or I don’t get the answers I need.

Willow waits, patient.

I take a breath. “So, a while ago, I saw this artist online.”

Willow’s face shifts—tiny, almost imperceptible. But I catch it.

Interest.

Recognition.

I press on.

“His work. Willow trees. Sunsets. Etched into leather and wood and iron.”

Willow’s eyes go wide like she’s watching fireworks.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, delighted.

My pulse jumps. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Willow presses a hand to her chest like she’s about to faint dramatically.

“Wow, Clara! You know, Greyson had nothing to do with those social media accounts. That was all me.”

I blink. “Wait. What?”

She nods quickly, cheeks flushing.

“I set them up.” She laughs, half proud, half guilty. “Thatcher had Grey make me boots at first. And a coat. And then little things here and there, and I loved them so much I started posting. Just little videos, you know? Close-ups. A few shots of the work. He let me watch him work sometimes, and I filmed it. But I didn’t think it would blow up.”