Page 89 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“But I didn’t come here to expose him,” I add quickly. “I would never do that. I don’t even—” I shake my head, frustrated with myself. “That’s not who I am.”

My fingers curl against the edge of the stainless steel table, cold and grounding.

“And I guess…” My voice wobbles, and I hate that it does. I clear my throat, trying to swallow the stupid emotion back down. “I guess it just hurt. That he assumed that.”

There it is.

Ugly and raw.

I shrug like it’s nothing.

Like my chest doesn’t feel cracked wide open.

Like I’m not standing here trying very hard not to cry in Willow’s kitchen like the dramatic lead in a low-budget heartbreak movie.

God, I hate this.

I hate feeling exposed.

I hate caring this much.

I hate that one man’s opinion can crawl under my skin and stay there.

I should leave.

I know that.

Go back to my life.

Back to my apartment with the skyline view and the coffee shop on the corner and the comfort of knowing exactly how my days will unfold.

But I don’t want to.

The city feels loud now. Shallow. Like everything is curated and filtered and slightly performative.

Here? It’s messy. Honest. Real.

I like waking up to the smell of coffee and sawdust. I like Willow’s easy laughter.

I like Kelly’s sharp, brave heart and the way little Evan, Kelly’s son, still looks at the world like it hasn’t betrayed him yet despite his rat father.

Hell, I even like talking to Thatcher—who is, frankly, more marshmallow than terrifying mountain brute once you get past the beard.

Even the mill guys—gruff and blunt and surprisingly kind—feel more genuine than half the people I used to dine with in heels and pearls.

“Oh, Clara,” Willow says gently, “you know Greyson doesn’t mean to?—”

“Oh, I don’t blame him,” I cut in quickly, because that feels safer than admitting how much he got to me. “And I don’t expect you to take my side. You’ve known him so much longer. That wouldn’t be fair.”

I laugh softly, but it’s brittle.

“Besides, is it even fair for me to have my idiot feelings hurt? He doesn’t know me. For all he knows, I really could be some morally corrupt blogger who doesn’t care if she ruins people’s lives.”

The words sting as they leave my mouth.

Because part of me wonders if that’s what he saw when he looked at me.

A risk.