Page 90 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

A liability.

A headline waiting to happen.

“That’s not true.”

The voice comes from behind me.

Low.

Rough.

And so painfully familiar that my entire body reacts before my brain does.

My skin goes electric.

My breath catches.

“I know you’d never do that.”

I gasp and spin so fast I nearly knock over a stack of plates.

Because there he is.

Greyson stands in the back doorway like he’s been carved out of the mountain itself—worn green-and-blue plaid flannel, faded jeans, thick work boots dusted with dried mud.

His hair is brushed back, his beard trimmed enough that I can actually see the strong line of his jaw, and for a split second my brain does something infuriating and unhelpful.

He did that for me.

Like he wanted to look presentable.

Or maybe it’s just a coincidence and I’m still romanticizing a man who told me to get dressed and get out after the best sex I’d ever experienced in my life.

Either way, he looks too damn good for someone I’ve decided I’m angry at.

And I hate that my body notices before my pride does.

His fingers are stained—dark smudges along the pads and nails, like he’s been working with stain or char or both.

Hands that make art.

Hands that held me.

I’m curious about the project.

But I shove the thought away so hard it almost hurts.

Willow’s expression turns into something smugly satisfied.

Like she just watched the last piece of a puzzle click into place.

“Oh,” she says, voice innocent in a way it absolutely isn’t. “Look who found his way down the mountain.”

Greyson’s gaze flicks to her, warning.

Willow only smiles brighter.

I cross my arms over my chest like it’ll keep my emotions from spilling out.