Page 32 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Tea doesn’t buzz under my skin like bees trapped in a jar.

And no, that doesn’t make me soft, you unrefined swine.

I turn the burner on and watch the flame catch, blue and steady.

Behind me, the storm hammers the cabin like it’s trying to break in. Wind rattles the windows. Rain and sleet scrape the glass in ugly bursts.

And behind the mudroom door, I hear it. Movement. Hers.

The faint rustle of fabric. A soft thump. The sound of a zipper.

I freeze with my hand on the counter.

Because yes, I sure as fuck can hear her taking off her clothes.

And my body, traitorous bastard that it is, reacts like it hasn’t been civilized in years.

Heat punches through me low in my gut—sharp, immediate—and my grip tightens on the edge of the counter until the wood creaks.

This is not happening.

Not here.

Not with a stranger in my house.

Not with a city woman who smells like expensive perfume and trouble.

But there it is anyway—my pulse jumping, my skin tightening, my brain throwing a flicker of imagery I don’t ask for.

And yeah, my dick is getting hard.

Because mere feet away—there are soft curves.

Wet hair.

Smooth skin.

I swallow hard and force my gaze back to the stove, like I can intimidate my own hormones into submission.

Get it together.

She’s cold. She’s scared. She’s stranded.

This isn’t a damn fantasy.

This is a problem.

I move on autopilot—hands busy so my head doesn’t wander.

Bread out. Peanut butter. Strawberry jelly. Nutella.

I’m not much for company, but I keep basics around.

Some habits don’t die, even when you’ve carved your life down to the essentials.

I make two sandwiches fast, clean, and efficient.

Cut them in equal halves, like I’m feeding a kid. Set them on a plate.