Page 143 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Thatcher hands me a piece of corn on the cob without looking at me.

It’s fucking hot. I toss it between my hands.

“You want my advice?” he says.

“Not really,” I mutter.

“Too bad.”

He takes a swig of his beer.

“If you want her here, say it. If you don’t, don’t string her along. But don’t expect her to gamble her whole life on an implied maybe.”

The words sit heavy.

I stare at the ground for a long moment.

Because I do want her here.

The thought doesn’t scare me the way it did this morning.

It steadies me.

“Grey,” Willow says softly. “Maybe she’s not pulling away. Maybe she’s just protecting herself.”

That hits somewhere deep.

Because I know what that looks like.

I invented it.

I drain the rest of my beer and set the empty bottle on the railing. But I’m taking the corn.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

Thatcher grins faintly. “You gonna go talk to her?”

“Yeah,” I say.

I look toward the dark stretch of road that leads back to Kelly’s.

“I am.”

Chapter 29

Clara

The house smells like cardboard and laundry detergent, and the faintest trace of cinnamon apple candle Kelly keeps lighting even though it’s spring.

Still, it feels like endings.

“So, do you expect this place to be on the market long?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

Kelly folds a towel with sharp, efficient movements and drops it into a basket.

“Around here? Maybe.”

She doesn’t look up.