Page 48 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

It’s functional. Earned.

The kind of strength you build because you have to split wood and haul supplies and survive winters that don’t care about your feelings.

It makes my stomach flip in a way I refuse to be embarrassed about.

My entire body is buzzing with awareness—skin hyper-sensitive, nerve endings lit up like sparklers.

My mind is racing and weirdly clear at the same time, like all the noise I usually carry has gone quiet so I can hear one thing and one thing only.

I want him.

And I’m not going to treat that like a crisis.

I’ve spent too much of my life second-guessing myself.

Policing myself.

Negotiating with my own desire like it’s something I need permission to have.

Not tonight.

Tonight I’m a grown woman who just survived a thunderstorm, a dead car, and a bear on a mountain road.

I am allowed to want warmth.

I am allowed to want hands on my skin.

I am allowed to want a man who looks at me like I’m not too much.

Greyson pushes open a bedroom door and the air changes—warmer, quieter, softer.

A lamp glows on a nightstand.

The bed is big and made in that utilitarian way that says nobody comes in here except the person who sleeps alone.

He sets me down on the mattress like I’m something precious he doesn’t trust himself to be rough with.

My knees sink into the blankets.

I swallow.

He stands there for half a beat—towering, breathing hard, eyes dark and intent—like he’s still deciding whether he’s about to jump off a cliff.

Then he steps closer, and the decision is made.

The robe belt is still knotted at my waist. I slide my hands to it, fingers trembling, and shrug the robe from my shoulders.

The cool air kisses my skin.

Greyson’s gaze drops—slow, hungry, reverent—and my pulse stutters.

No one has ever looked at me like that.

With so much blatant hunger.

He doesn’t look at me like my body is there to critique.

He looks at me like a man looks at the woman he wants.