Page 79 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Her hair is piled on top of her head in some kind of messy bun that looks purposeful and too damn pretty for this early in the morning.

She’s wearing a long patchwork skirt that brushes her ankles, a tight T-shirt that clings in places I vividly remember, and a cardigan that makes her look almost sweet.

And on her feet—Jesus.

On her feet is the ugliest pair of bright yellow Crocs I’ve ever seen in my life.

They’re ridiculous.

They’re wrong.

And I want to drop to my knees in front of them.

She looks hotter than she did in high heels.

More at home.

More dangerous.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand before I can stop myself.

Smooth, Greyson. Real smooth.

She blinks up at me, and for a split second I see it—that shimmer of hurt before she shutters it behind attitude.

“Um, gee,” she says coolly, arching a brow. “Good morning?”

And for a moment, I actually hate myself.

Because I put that hurt there.

I square my shoulders instead of apologizing like a normal human being.

“Look,” I snap, because anger is easier than honesty, “I know who you are. Clara Belle. Belle’s & Whistles Tell All Blog. And you’re not gonna get a story out of me.”

Her expression changes—not wounded now.

Good, because I can’t stand the idea I hurt her.

She looks miffed. Offended.

I can handle that—I think.

She stands slowly.

Doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t back down.

Instead, she walks around the counter like she’s done it a hundred times.

Willow grins at her and nudges her along before physically shooing me away from the kitchen entrance.

And now I’m pissed for an entirely different reason.

Because Willow is supposed to be my friend.

And I’ve never been allowed behind that counter.