Page 80 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“Sit down, Grey,” Willow chides. “You know the rules.”

“I know I do,” I growl, dragging a hand down my beard. “But why is she here, Willow? You don’t know?—”

“She’s a writer,” Willow cuts in. “Yes, I know. And yes, she came here to find the elusive Lumberjack Artist. And while we’re at it, why did you never tell me I was blowing you up online when you didn’t want to be found?”

Willow stands there looking indignant with her hands on her hips, eyes spitting fire at me.

At me? I’m the victim here!

I sputter.

Blink.

“What? I never said—shit, Willow, it was fine, No big deal. Besides, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Oh my God, Greyson, shut up.”

“It’s different with you and Thatcher, I know you guys. But she doesn’t belong here,” I insist, because that’s the part I understand.

“She’s a goddamn city slicker. She has no business on this mountain. I don’t want her here!”

The words are still hanging in the air when she rounds the corner.

Her face? It pales.

And I don’t even notice that Clara’s holding a glass of water. Don’t even connect the dots when her brows narrow and her lips purse.

So, yeah, before my idiot brain catches up—she lifts the glass and tosses its contents straight in my face.

Cold.

Sharp.

Perfect fucking aim.

The Lunchroom goes dead silent.

Water drips down my beard and off my nose.

Well.

Shit.

She steps closer, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed.

“Look,” she snaps. “I am an adult. You don’t even know me, and I sure as shit don’t know you.”

“Shit, Clara, I didn’t mean?—”

She shakes her head, and I shut my mouth.

“No, I get it. What happened between us was consensual, I will own my part of that. But as you so nicely put it that morning when you showed me the door, it was a one and done—and thank God for that! But this is too much! How dare you think you get a say in where I belong?”

Her voice shakes—but not from fear.

From fury.

“Clara—”