Page 71 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“Okay, yeah. Jersey.”

Thatcher makes a sound that could be amusement or resignation.

“She won’t shut up about it.”

“Excuse you,” Willow says, offended on behalf of the entire Garden State. “I’m culturally rich.”

“You’re loud,” he counters.

Willow points at him. “And you love that about me.”

Thatcher’s response is a grumble that sounds suspiciously like agreement.

“I love everything about you,” he whispers and kisses her temple.

And that’s when I realize something that makes my throat tighten.

They’re solid.

Real. Comfortable.

Not performing for anyone.

It’s nice.

And it makes me wish I had anything remotely close to that in my life.

We climb out of the truck, and the mud covering the ground inside the sawmill is real.

I almost lose a Croc.

“Whoops. Careful,” she snickers and leads me inside.

The Lunchroom is attached to the mill, warm and bustling even in the late morning.

There are a few long tables, mismatched chairs, a counter with pastries under a glass dome, and a chalkboard menu written in cheerful, messy handwriting.

It feels like the kind of place that feeds people who work hard.

The kind of place where nobody cares what brand your coat is, only whether you’re hungry.

Willow ushers me into a booth like she’s known me longer than an hour.

“Sit. You look like you need calories and gossip.”

“That might be accurate,” I admit.

Thatcher nods at Willow, then at me.

“I’m gonna check on the guys,” he says, and Willow waves him off like she owns the building—which, judging by the way everyone nods at her, and the fact the place is called McCrae Lumber & Sawmill—she basically does.

As soon as he’s gone, Willow slides into the booth across from me and sets a plate down like she’s presenting an offering.

* * *

A breakfast burrito the size of my forearm.

It’s smothered in something that smells like salsa verde and melted pepper jack cheese—and maybe a little bit of heaven.