Page 95 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

It takes me another thirty damn minutes to get my ass out of the truck.

Coward.

I finally push the door open and walk inside.

I overhear her say some things. And I can’t be silent.

“That’s not true,” I tell her because she needs to know I don’t believe she’s a bad person. “I know you’d never do that.”

“Can I talk to you for a minute, Clara?” I ask. My voice comes out rough but steady.

She doesn’t answer right away. She just studies me.

Long.

Careful.

Willow encourages her. And I’m grateful.

But this is Clara’s choice.

I can see her thinking. Like she’s measuring the risk.

Then she exhales—and my stomach clenches.

“Fine,” she says quietly. “I’ll talk to you.”

She follows me outside.

Halfway across the lot, one of her Crocs sinks into the mud again. She wobbles slightly.

I move before I think.

I catch her hand.

The contact is instant.

Electric.

She gasps softly, and I feel it everywhere.

I meet her eyes.

Hazel. Gold. Fire.

For a second, everything else fades—the sawmill, the noise, the weight in my chest.

This is it.

No more rehearsing in my truck.

No more hiding behind anger and territorial bullshit.

All or nothing.

I step closer, still holding her hand because I’m not sure I trust myself to let go.

“I was wrong,” I say.