Page 44 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I want—a movement, a sound behind me.

Soft.

A shift of fabric.

Bare feet on wood.

I don’t turn.

I should.

I should tell her to go to the bedroom like I said.

I should tell her to sleep and leave in the morning and never come back.

I should do a lot of things.

But I’m too lost in my own head to catch her until it’s too late.

Her hand lands on my back.

Just one palm, gentle—barely pressure—but it hits me like lightning.

Hot and soft against my flannel shirt, searing straight through the fabric and into my bloodstream.

My breath catches so hard it hurts.

I go still.

Every muscle locks.

Because touch is rare, up here.

Because I don’t let people close.

Because my body recognizes softness and decides, instantly, violently, that it has been starving.

“Greyson?” she says.

My name in her voice is the final match.

I spin around and catch her hand in mine, not rough but not gentle either—just fast, instinctive, like I need to control the point of contact before I lose control of everything else.

Her eyes widen. But she doesn’t pull away.

She’s close.

Too close.

I can feel the heat of her.

I can smell the clean freshness of her skin where the perfume has faded. Likely from the rain she must’ve wiped off in the mudroom—and underneath it?

Her own scent blossoms. It’s sweet and real and not the expensive shit that pissed Scar off.

I shake my head once, a warning I can’t quite put into words.

Don’t.