Page 91 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“Can I talk to you for a minute, Clara?” Greyson asks.

His voice is careful now.

Not icy. Not accusing. Not sharp.

Careful, like he knows he’s standing on thin ice and one wrong word will crack it.

I swallow.

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

Willow makes a shooing gesture with both hands that she probably believes is subtle, but it’s about as subtle as a marching band.

“Go,” she mouths at me, eyes wide with encouragement.

I glare at her.

Then I look back at Greyson—at the way his shoulders are tight, at the way he’s holding himself like he’s bracing for impact.

Part of me wants to throw another glass of water at him.

Part of me wants to demand answers.

Part of me wants to be held again, which is humiliating and inconvenient and very, very real.

I lift my chin.

“Fine,” I say, because my pride demands firmness even if my voice shakes. “I’ll talk to you.”

Chapter 17

Greyson

It took me two days to grab my balls like Thatcher suggested.

Two days of pacing.

Of rewriting speeches in my head.

Of sanding edges and resealing wood that didn’t need it just so I wouldn’t have to admit I was scared.

Not of her.

Of what wanting her means.

First things first—I had to finish the sunflower table.

No half measures. No distractions.

If I was going to step out of hiding, I needed to do it clean.

I sealed the last coat, buffed the surface until the grain gleamed, and supervised the crating myself before it shipped off to the gallery hosting the exhibit of my work.

GCM’s work.

The Lumberjack Artist.

Yeah, the gallery leaned hard into that name.