Page 61 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I’m thirty-five.

And I know exactly what it feels like to be dismissed.

To be made small.

To be treated like an inconvenience once the excitement wears off.

A hot flush crawls up my neck—anger, embarrassment, something that tastes like regret.

Fine.

If he wants me gone, I’ll go.

I swing my legs out of bed and grab the clothes he left—borrowed sweats, a soft undershirt, and one of his flannels folded on top like an afterthought.

I pull it on last and freeze for a second when the scent hits me.

Him.

Woods and smoke and mountain air and that spicy male warmth that should not make my mouth water when I’m furious.

It does anyway.

Because my body is downright rude.

Because last night absolutely happened.

And because my stupid heart keeps trying to attach meaning to things that might not deserve it.

I button the flannel halfway, hands trembling with leftover adrenaline, then stalk into the kitchen like I’m going to start a fight with the coffee pot.

The cabin is quiet.

Almost painfully so.

Coffee sits on the stove in a battered percolator, exactly where he said it would be.

A mug is already out, as if he expects me to pour it and leave without making a mess.

I don’t pour it.

I stare at it instead, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Used. I feel so damn used.

At least, that’s the word my brain keeps trying to feed me.

Which is ridiculous because I chose last night. I wanted it.

And to my undying shame, I still want parts of it so badly it makes my skin hum.

But being wanted for one night and then shoved out the door the next morning?

Yeah. That hits a nerve.

A few minutes later I hear a truck engine growling outside.

That’s good. It arrives a second before I can spiral any further.