Page 24 of Grumpy Lumberjack’s Secret

He was in a mood. The kind of sharp, coiled tension that I’d learned meant something at the mill had gone wrong before 7 AM and every interaction after that was going to get the collateral. I knew this Sawyer. He wouldn’t be mean to me, not exactly, but he’d be short and clipped and the gentleness that had started creeping into his voice during our late-night phone calls would be locked behind the armor he wore at work.

“Nothing,” I said. “Focus on work. Bye.”

I hung up before he could respond.

Then I sat on the edge of my bed and assessed the situation. I was sick. I had no medicine. The nearest pharmacy was a twenty-minute drive that I was in absolutely no condition to make. I could call Dollie, but Dollie was at school covering her own classes plus probably helping wrangle my substitute through the cotton-ball-cloud lesson plan. I could wait it out, but waiting it out meant lying in bed all day getting worse, and I needed to be functional by tomorrow.

I stood up. Slowly this time, bracing myself on the wall. The dizziness rushed in, but I gritted my teeth and let it pass. I got dressed in stages, each movement requiring a rest break. Sweatpants. Oversized hoodie. The sneakers by the door that I didn’t bother to lace. I looked like a woman who had given up on several key aspects of life simultaneously, but I was upright, and that counted.

The walk to the pharmacy was brutal. Pinewood Ridge was a small town, but small is relative when your legs feel like cooked noodles and the sidewalk keeps tilting. I made it to the pharmacy, bought ibuprofen, cold medicine, and a box of tissues, and started the walk home with the paper bag clutched to my chest like a shield.

I was half a block from my apartment when the ground decided to move.

It didn’t, of course. Objectively, the sidewalk was right where it had always been. But my brain and my body had a disagreement about vertical, and my left knee buckled, and for one horrible, weightless second I was going down.

A hand caught my elbow.

“Whoa, hey. Chloe?”

Ryan Marsh. Of course. Because the universe had decided that every embarrassing moment in my life needed a witness, and Ryan was apparently on the rotation.

He steadied me with both hands on my arms, his face creased with concern. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said automatically. “Just dizzy. Nothing serious.”

“You don’t look fine. You look…” He paused, clearly searching for a word that wouldn’t be offensive. “Unwell.”

“Thank you, Ryan. Very diplomatic.”

“Do you need a ride home? My car’s right over there.”

“I’m literally half a block from my door, but thank you. Really. I appreciate the catch.”

“Anytime. Seriously, Chloe, if you need any…”

“What happened here?”

Sawyer’s voice cut through the conversation like a saw through pine. I turned, too fast, and the dizziness surged. He was standing on the sidewalk behind us, his truck parked at the curb with the engine still running and the driver’s door open, like he’d gotten out in a hurry and hadn’t bothered to close it. He was still in his work clothes, sawdust on his boots, his flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows. His jaw was set and his eyes were moving between me and Ryan with an intensity that made the air temperature drop.

“Why are you here?” I asked, confused.

He ignored the question. His focus had narrowed to Ryan’s hands, which were still on my arms.

“Just caught her from falling,” Ryan said quickly, reading the situation with the survival instincts of a man who had apparently met Sawyer before. “She looks like she’s running a fever.”

Sawyer stepped forward. His hand closed around mine, warm and certain and large enough to envelop my entire fist. He looked at Ryan with an expression that was technically polite in the same way that a wolf showing its teeth was technically smiling.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said. “You can leave now.”

Ryan’s hands dropped from my arms. He took a step back, gave me a look that said please don’t die and good luck with whatever this is, and walked away.

“You don’t need to be rude,” I said, watching Ryan’s retreating back. “He was being nice.”

Sawyer didn’t respond to that. His hand went to my forehead, his palm flat against my skin, and I watched his expression shift from guarded to something that looked alarmingly close to furious.

“You are burning up,” he said, his voice low and tight. “And you’re outside. Walking. Are you out of your mind?”

“I needed medicine. I ran out.”