Chapter 4
Clara
Okay, so following some hare-brained scheme to hunt down the artist I’ve been low-key stalking online isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had, but it’s up there.
Like the time I shaved off my eyebrows because I heard they’d grow back fuller and I wouldn’t have to pencil them in anymore.
They did not.
I walked around looking permanently surprised for three months and thanked every deity available for tinted moisturizer and the invention of hats.
Or that time I tried water fasting during a vacation with some college friends at an amusement park—because apparently I thought dehydration was a personality—and I drank an entire gallon of water right before a rollercoaster.
Then peed on myself during the big dip.
Because what the hell did I expect?
Anyway.
This—this—might actually take the crown.
Because one minute I’m walking into my kitchen and catching Geoff The Asshole having sex with his secretary on my countertop like he’s auditioning for a bad cable drama—and the next I’m on a mountain in Maine during a thunderstorm with a bear and a gruff, bearded stranger.
Which one is scarier?
I don’t know yet.
Bear—huge, loud, definitely capable of killing me.
Mountain man—also huge, loud, definitely capable of killing me if he’s not too busy judging me to death.
Right now, said mountain man has me hauled up like I weigh nothing at all.
And it’s not even “oh, she’s light” nothing.
More like “I routinely carry firewood larger than this woman” nothing.
Which is bullshit because I’m a big girl, and I know I weigh something.
One arm is hooked around my waist, his grip firm and efficient, like he’s transported countless half-frozen idiots off this mountain.
I am not going to analyze how being carried makes my stomach flip because I refuse to let my nervous system have that kind of power over me today.
I’m cold. I’m soaked. I’m barefoot.
And worse?
I’m humiliated.
Which honestly, what kind of woman am I that this embarrasses me more than my ex-fiancé cheating on me?
I should be focused on survival.
Not the fact that he smells like pine and wood smoke and something clean and masculine, like soap that doesn’t come in a bottle with gold lettering.
Or that his chest is a solid wall under my cheek when the wind hits, and my body—traitorous, pathetic—wants to lean into the warmth.
I do not.
I stiffen and glare like a cat about to commit violence.
“This is—” I begin, but a fresh crack of thunder punches the air and I squeak like I’ve never been in charge of my own dignity.
He just grunts and keeps walking.
The cabin comes out of the storm like a mirage—dark wood, warm light spilling from the windows, a porch swallowed by snowdrifts.
For a split second, relief hits me so hard my eyes burn.
Then the door opens, and heat—actual, honest-to-God heat—rolls over me like a blanket.
I make a sound I do not approve of.
Not a moan.
Not a whimper.
More like a broken little gasp that reveals I might be human after all.
He steps inside and kicks the door shut behind us with his boot, and suddenly I’m in a mudroom that looks like it’s been designed for exactly this situation. Survival.
There’s a row of hooks, heavy coats, boots lined like soldiers, a bench that looks like it could hold a small car, and a big rubber mat already soaked with melted snow.
The man—this grumpy, beard-covered menace—sets me down like I’m cargo.
Not gently.
Not cruelly.
Just… matter-of-factly, because apparently I’m little more than a problem the storm has cast on his shoulders.
My feet hit the mat and I flinch, toes curling because they’re numb and the floor is still cold even in here.
I sway, and before I can fall, his hand lands on my elbow—steadying me.
The contact is brief.
But it shoots straight up my arm like a spark.
He releases me immediately.
Like he feels it too and doesn’t like it.
“Sit,” he says, voice rough.
It’s not a suggestion.
Because my legs are shaking, and because—fine—my survival instinct is fully awake now.
So, yes, I sit.
He points to a chair tucked beside the bench, and I drop into it, dripping all over everything like a broken faucet.
I look down at myself.
My coat is soaked through. My hair is a wet curtain. My hands are red. Mud stains my pants.
My feet are bare and my toenail polish—my perfect Cherry Bomb polish—is ruined by dirt.
I have never looked less like the version of myself Geoff posted on Instagram.
Good.
Let him keep the polished Clara. He can marry that—whoever the hell she is.
This Clara is currently fighting for her life—and she doesn’t give a fuck what she looks like.
The mountain man turns away, shrugging off his coat.
Water splatters on the floor.
His shoulders flex under his shirt, and I immediately make the mistake of noticing that he’s built like he chops wood for fun.
Which he probably does.
Because, of course, he does.
My pulse skitters. I shove it down.
He pauses at a door that leads deeper into the cabin—warm light glows under the crack.
“Take off your things. Wait here,” he grunts.
My mouth opens automatically.
“Yep. I’m not going anywhere,” I say, and the sarcasm comes out on instinct because I’m panicking and sarcasm is my emotional support animal.
He doesn’t even look back.
The door opens. Warmth spills out.
He disappears.
I sit there, drenched and trembling, listening.
The storm is still raging outside, pounding the cabin like it’s trying to break in.
And I realize with a sick twist that I’m alone in a strange man’s house.
A strange man who carried me.
A strange man who yelled at a bear like it was a dog that peed on his rug.
A strange man who could be a serial killer.
Or worse.
My brain tries to spiral, and I clamp down on it.
Okay. Breathe.
This is fine.
This is—the door swings open again, and he’s back.
He’s carrying a laundry basket in one hand like it weighs nothing, and his dark brows are drawn together as he looks at me.
His gaze rakes over my wet hair, my soaked coat, my shaking hands.
And his mouth does something—barely.
Not a smile.
More like he’s trying not to react.
“Jesus,” he mutters, like he can’t help himself. “You look like a drowned cat.”
I blink at him.
Then I lift my chin, because I may be freezing but I still have standards.
“Thanks,” I say. “That’s exactly the vibe I was going for.”
He huffs, and the sound is so close to a laugh it startles me.
Then he sets the basket down with a solid thump at my feet.
Inside are towels.
Thick ones. Fluffy ones.
The kind you get in fancy hotels and pretend you don’t like because you have pride.
And on top—a robe.
Dark. Heavy.
Probably his.
My stomach does a small, ridiculous flip.
He points at the basket like it’s a command.
“Take off your wet clothes. Dry off,” he says.
I stare at the robe, then at him.
My voice comes out smaller than I want. “I… I’m dripping everywhere.”
“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “I noticed.”
I should be offended.
But the truth is, I’m too relieved to be offended.
My fingers curl around the towel and it’s warm—he must’ve grabbed it from near a stove or something—and the heat against my skin makes my eyes sting.
He watches me for one long second, expression unreadable.
Then he turns away like he can’t stand looking at me like this.
And I hate how that makes my chest tighten.
“Look, you’re safe here,” he says, rough and reluctant, like the words taste strange in his mouth. “For now.”
“For now?” I repeat, because my mouth has no filter even in emergencies.
He glances back over his shoulder, eyes sharp.
“For now,” he confirms. “Until the storm eases. Then we deal with your car.”
“My—” I swallow. “My Tesla.”
His face does something again—something that looks suspiciously like disdain.
Of course it does.
Because, of course, my dead Tesla is the most offensive thing he’s encountered all day.
I clutch the towel tighter and force a breath.
“Okay,” I say, trying for calm. “Okay. Thank you.”
He doesn’t respond to that.
Just steps toward a set of hooks on the wall and grabs another towel.
He tosses it at me without warning.
It lands in my lap.
I yelp.
His mouth twitches.
“Use that on your hair,” he says.
Then, like he’s afraid of what happens if he stays in this small room with me and my dripping city-girl chaos, he heads toward the inner door again.
I blurt the first thing my brain produces—because silence makes me nervous and I need to fill it with something.
“Wait,” I say.
He pauses.
“What,” he grunts, not turning around.
My throat tightens. I grip the towel like a lifeline.
“I’m Clara,” I say, because something about sitting here—dripping and barefoot and entirely at his mercy—makes stranger feel too dangerous. “Clara Belle.”
He turns slowly, like the movement takes effort.
Like he has to decide whether giving me anything—his attention, his name, even one shred of basic human connection—is worth the risk.
His gaze catches mine and holds.
There’s something in his eyes that makes my stomach dip.
Old.
Guarded.
Wary in a way that’s not just caution—it’s experience.
Like he’s learned the hard way what letting people in costs.
Like he’s already decided I’m trouble.
And like part of him is furious about the fact that he’s not wrong.
“Greyson,” he says finally.
Just one word.
No last name.
No pleasantry.
No nice to meet you.
It comes out rough, reluctant—like it scrapes on the way up.
Like it costs him something to hand it over.
Then he’s gone.
The door swings shut and I’m left sitting in the mudroom in borrowed heat, holding a robe that smells like cedar and smoke, trying to figure out why his name rings through me like a bell.
Greyson.
I don’t know that name.
I don’t know him.
Not really.
Not beyond the fact that he just carried me out of a thunderstorm like I was nothing, yelled a bear away like it was a nuisance, and looked at me like I’m a mistake the mountain coughed up to punish him.
Still… something prickles.
A feeling I can’t place.
I shake my head hard, like I can knock the thought loose.
Focus, Clara.
You’re freezing. You’re wet.
You’re currently in a stranger’s cabin and your toes are turning into ice cubes.
I stand on unsteady legs and start unbuttoning my coat with numb fingers.
Every motion feels clumsy, like my hands belong to someone else.
The wet fabric peels away from my skin in cold, sticky layers.
I move toward the wall of hooks to hang it beside his.
And I freeze.
Because right there—burned into the wood of the coat rack like it’s always belonged there—is a willow tree.
Not just a little doodle.
A full, sweeping design.
Branches bending in a familiar curve, roots anchored deep.
The lines are confident. Controlled.
Beautiful in a way that makes my breath snag.
My scalp prickles.
A shiver runs through me—sharp, electric, nothing to do with the cold.
I blink hard like maybe I’m imagining it.
But I’m not.
It’s real.
I swallow, and suddenly the air feels too thick. Too warm. Like the room is closing in.
I peel off my wet sweater next, then my pants, moving fast—too fast—like the clothes are burning me.
Like if I don’t get them off right now, I’ll lose my mind.
I yank the robe from the basket and slip into it, wrapping it tight around my body. It’s heavy, warm, absurdly comforting, and it hangs on me like it’s used to a bigger frame.
My heart pounds loud in my ears.
I twist my wet hair into a towel with shaking hands and force myself to look around.
And that’s when I see them.
More willows.
On the shelf bracket.
On the edge of a wooden bench.
Etched into a leather strap hanging beside a set of keys.
A tiny sunset burned into the corner of a storage chest like a secret signature.
Willow trees. Mountain landscapes. A horizon line turning into dusk.
My mouth goes dry.
My gaze slides to the shelf and my stomach drops again—not from art this time, but from the rifle resting there.
It’s real. It’s heavy. It looks used.
Loaded? I don’t know. I don’t want to know.
But it’s definitely his.
And so is everything else.
Because this isn’t random cabin decor.
This is a body of work.
This is a language.
This is—holy shit.
His signature.
The Lumberjack Artist.
My lungs forget how to work for a full second.
Oh my God.
No.
No, no, no.
Because if this is who I think it is—then I didn’t just get rescued by a mountain man.
I got rescued by the man I drove into a thunderstorm to find.