Page 67 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

It’s mocking me.

Reminding me.

I turn, taking my mask off and dropping it on the floor, and I face it.

Clara’s sunflower.

Chapter 12

Clara

The strange woman beams at me like I’m not just standing in Greyson’s cabin having an internal meltdown.

“So,” she says, bright as sunshine. “How did you find this place? We still need a map and directions.”

She smiles.

I shrug and try to smile back.

Judging from her expression, I fail. Miserably.

Oh my God.

There it is. My chest cracks a little.

She steps forward, then gestures behind her with her thumb.

“So—” she pats the big man’s arm. “Um, Thatcher, wanna set down that box so we can get Clara out of here? Sound good, Clara? Got any bags or anything?”

Thatcher’s gaze flicks over me, assessing, then softens into something like understanding.

Like he already knows I’m mid-spiral.

I swallow hard.

“Um, yeah, I’m ready. No, I don’t have anything but this,” I manage, holding the bundle of clothes I wore last night.

My voice comes out weak and stupid.

Then, I look down.

Fuck.

I have no shoes.

“Oh, no worries. Grey mentioned your problem,” she says and hands me a pair of godawful rubber shoes.

“They’re yellow.”

“They’re Crocs,” she explains.

I guess she’s right.

Says so right there on the side along with a little crocodile icon.

“Um, thanks,” I murmur and slip them on—holy shit, they feel great.

“Nice, right?” Willow nods knowingly.