Page 15 of Grumpy Lumberjack’s Secret

I bit my lip to keep from grinning. He was a terrible liar. Absolutely, spectacularly terrible. His jaw was set too hard and his eyes kept drifting to the side, the way they always did when he was saying something he knew was nonsense. He’d been waiting for me. The realization sent a warm flush spreading from my chest to my fingertips.

“Okay,” I said simply. “Public tree. You were visiting a friend. Total coincidence. Got it.”

He looked at me like he was trying to decide whether to argue or to let the obviously false story stand. After a moment, he uncrossed his arms and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, which was Sawyer code for “I’m uncomfortable and I don’t know what to do with my body.”

I shifted my bag to the other shoulder and was about to ask him how long he’d been standing there when a voice called out from behind me.

“Chloe! Hey!”

I turned. Ryan Marsh was jogging up the sidewalk, his messenger bag bouncing against his hip and his cheeks flushed from the cold. Ryan taught third grade at the elementary school, and he had the kind of wholesome, golden-retriever energy that made him a favorite among students, parents, and approximately every single woman in Pinewood Ridge under forty. He was nice. Genuinely nice, in the uncomplicated way that some people managed without any visible effort.

“Hey, Ryan,” I said, smiling. “What are you doing on this side of town?”

“Dropped off some stuff at the community center.” He stopped in front of me, slightly out of breath, his smile wide and easy. “Listen, I was going to ask you at school tomorrow, but since you’re here, a bunch of us are going to Mabel’s on Friday for dinner. Nothing fancy, just burgers and that apple pie she makes. Would you want to come?”

Before I could answer, a voice cut in from behind me like a blade through lumber.

“Sorry, but we’re eating dinner later.”

Ryan’s eyes shifted over my shoulder, and I watched the easy confidence drain from his face. I turned to find Sawyer standing closer than he’d been a moment ago, having crossed the distance from the tree to my side without making a sound. He was looking at Ryan with an expression that was, technically, neutral. But the kind of neutral that a thunderstorm was neutral before the lightning started. His shoulders were squared, his jaw was set, and he had about six inches and forty pounds on Ryan, which he seemed very aware of.

Ryan looked from Sawyer to me. Then back to Sawyer. “Oh. I didn’t realize you two were…”

“We’re not,” I said quickly.

“We’re having dinner,” Sawyer said flatly.

“Right.” Ryan nodded, the kind of nod that said he was choosing the path of least resistance, which was wise given that Sawyer looked approximately one wrong word away from turning into a mountain. “Well, the offer stands, Chloe. Friday. If you’re free.”

“Thanks, Ryan,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”

Ryan gave a final, slightly nervous smile, raised a hand in a half-wave, and headed off down the street at a pace that was just a little faster than his arrival.

I waited until he was around the corner. Then I turned to Sawyer.

“Since when did we talk about having dinner?” I asked.

His expression didn’t change. Not exactly. But something in his eyes shifted, a flicker of something that looked suspiciously like uncertainty, like a man who had acted on instinct and was only now catching up to what he’d done.

“You want to or not?” he said.

It wasn’t a smooth line. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It was blunt and awkward and delivered with all the romantic finesse of a man asking someone to pass the salt. And it was, without question, the most endearing thing anyone had ever said to me.

I smiled. “Let’s go to my house. I’ll cook for you.”

Something eased in his shoulders. The tension didn’t leave entirely, because I was starting to understand that tension never fully left Sawyer Cole, it just rearranged itself into different configurations. But the sharp edge of it softened, and he gave a single nod.

We walked to my apartment in a silence that felt, for the first time, comfortable. Not the strained quiet of two people who didn’t know what to say, but the easy quiet of two people who didn’t need to fill every second with sound. Our footsteps fell into rhythm on the sidewalk, his heavy, mine light, and the cold air pressed close around us like a held breath.

Inside, my apartment was warm. I’d left the string lights on that morning (energy bill be damned, they made the place feel like home), and the golden glow softened everything. I dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my shoes, and headed for the kitchen.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I said over my shoulder. “And before you say something grumpy about the throw pillows, I already know there are too many. I don’t care. They spark joy.”

He stood in the middle of my living room, looking around with the careful, measured attention of a man cataloguing exits. His eyes moved from the string lights to the bookshelf to the couch to the small dining table. He looked enormous in my apartment, too broad for the doorframes, too tall for the ceilings, like someone had placed a redwood in a dollhouse.

“Sit anywhere,” I said, pulling a pot from the cabinet.

He sat at the kitchen table. The same chair from a month ago, the one that was too small for him, his knees pressing against the underside. He didn’t complain. He just sat, his hands on the table, and watched me cook.