Page 101 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I hold out the sunflower.

It’s simple.

Corny.

Old-school as hell.

But it felt right.

“I got this for you,” I say.

Her eyes widen just a little before she takes it carefully, like it’s fragile.

She lifts it to her nose and smiles as she inhales.

“Thank you,” she says. “I love sunflowers.”

“I figured,” I reply, grinning. “Otherwise, why would you get one tattooed on your sweet body?”

Her head snaps up. “You saw that?”

“Yeah, Trouble,” I say quietly. “I saw that.”

Her lips curve, and something warm settles low in my chest.

She runs inside to put it in water, and I take a steadying breath.

Tonight is about doing this right.

No rushing.

No hiding.

When she comes back out, I offer her my arm without thinking.

She hesitates only a second before slipping her hand through it.

And just like that, we’re walking to the truck like two people who know what a date is supposed to feel like.

The Neapolitan place in town doesn’t look like much from the outside.

Brick. Simple sign.

Warm light spilling through the windows.

But the owner trained in Naples, and the oven? Imported.

When we walk in, the smell hits—wood fire, tomato, garlic, fresh dough.

Clara’s eyes light up.

“You’re kidding me,” she says. “This place exists here?”

I grin. “You think Manhattan has a monopoly on good pizza?”

She laughs. “Yes! But really, I just didn’t expect this.”

We grab a small table near the window.