Page 197 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I want dinners that run long and loud.

Wine glasses sweating rings into coasters.

Friends leaning back in chairs, laughing.

Greyson at the center of it, sleeves rolled, explaining something with his hands while I watch him like he’s a miracle. Because he is.

My miracle.

I want holidays.

I want arguments and making up and late-night grilled cheese at two in the morning.

I want intention.

I want something made with hands and heart.

I just didn’t know he was already building it.

I hear the large truck before I see it.

A low rumble outside that doesn’t belong to a neighbor.

“Greyson?” I call from the stairs because he’s been weirdly quiet for the last ten minutes.

“Come here, Trouble,” he calls back.

There’s something in his voice that makes my pulse skip.

I round the corner into the dining room—and stop.

Two movers are standing around a massive, wrapped shape positioned dead center in the empty space.

My stomach flips.

“What did you do?” I ask slowly.

Greyson crosses the room like a man walking toward a cliff and a sunrise at the same time.

He takes my hand.

Kisses the ring he put there.

“I came home,” he says quietly. “And I brought you something that’s always been yours.”

My breath leaves me in a rush.

The movers start peeling back the padding.

Layer by careful layer.

And then I see it.

Sunflower petals carved deep into wood.

Burned edges.

Rich stain that glows like honey in late afternoon light.