Page 170 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I barely have a second to brace before Clara launches herself at me.

“Damn straight I’m coming with you,” she says, arms around my neck, laughter bursting out of her like fireworks.

And just like that—my heart soars.

I catch her automatically, lifting her off the floor as she wraps her legs around my waist without hesitation.

She smells like citrus cleaner and wildflowers and home.

“You’re not even going to pretend to think about it?” I ask, grinning up at her.

“Oh, I’m thinking,” she says, eyes sparkling. “I’m thinking about what I’m going to wear. I’m thinking about the look on my mom’s face when she hears about it. I’m thinking about how hot you’re going to look in something that isn’t flannel.”

I groan. “Hey. Who says I’m not wearing flannel?”

She leans back slightly, studying me like I’m a project she’s already claimed.

“Ha! I know you have a suit, Greyson Cole, and I am dying to see you in it,” she says, voice dropping just enough to make my pulse spike. “That’s why I’m coming.”

I set her down slowly but keep my hands at her waist.

“You sure?” I ask more seriously. “Going back there gonna sit well with you? It’s your world.”

She softens immediately.

“It was my old world,” she corrects. “It’s not my now. Or my future. Not anymore.”

That does something to me.

She reaches up, cups my face.

“I am so proud of you for choosing to step into the light,” she says. “And I want to be there for that.”

God.

This woman.

I rest my forehead against hers.

“I didn’t want to drag you into something uncomfortable,” I confess.

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” she says. “You’re inviting me to be with you at something meaningful. And I’m so proud and grateful you want me there.”

There is a difference.

And she’s right.

I want to tell her that I want to be with her all the time. That I want the world to see her with me.

But that’s too much for right now.

I’ll take this win and keep the rest close. Save it for another day.

Then she adds softly, “You’re gonna show them all who you are, Greyson. Not the mysterious myth. Not the anonymous Lumberjack Artist. Just you.”

My throat tightens.

“I don’t know how to be that guy,” I admit quietly.