Chapter 14
Greyson
It’s been a week.
Seven days of hiding in my workroom like a coward.
Seven days of pretending I chased her off that mountain because I was doing the right thing.
Seven days of sanding, staining, sealing, and finishing the sunflower table like it might burn her out of my system if I polished it enough.
It didn’t.
If anything, it made it worse.
My agent cried when I showed it to her over FaceTime this morning. Actually cried.
Said it was “a departure,” said it felt “hopeful,” said collectors were going to lose their minds over it.
I hung up before she could ask what inspired it.
I know what inspired it.
And she’s probably safely tucked back in her world by now.
Back to cocktail parties and rooftop views and blinding lights bouncing off glass towers.
Back to mic’d-up interviews and glittering streets in New York City.
Back to her curated life where men wear tailored suits and don’t growl at bears.
Back to everything that makes sense for her.
Not this mountain.
Not me.
By the time I stalk into the Lunchroom, I’m hungry, tired, and meaner than usual.
I haven’t shaved. Haven’t bothered trimming my hair.
I look like a warning label.
The place smells like bacon and coffee and fresh bread.
I nod at guys I recognize from the sawmill. Thatcher runs a tight ship, and they’re all alright.
But then I freeze.
Because the last person I expect to see is sitting at the end table—my table.
Clara Belle.
Just sitting and drinking coffee like she belongs there.
I knew it the first time I saw her. This woman is Trouble—capital T intended.
I stop dead in the doorway.
My eyes narrow on instinct, but my body doesn’t get the memo.
My chest squeezes tight, painful and sudden.
And my dick—traitorous bastard—thumps hard behind my zipper like it’s been waiting all week for this exact moment.
Fuck.
She looks good.
Soft and curvy and real.
Her hair is piled on top of her head in some kind of messy bun that looks purposeful and too damn pretty for this early in the morning.
She’s wearing a long patchwork skirt that brushes her ankles, a tight T-shirt that clings in places I vividly remember, and a cardigan that makes her look almost sweet.
And on her feet—Jesus.
On her feet is the ugliest pair of bright yellow Crocs I’ve ever seen in my life.
They’re ridiculous.
They’re wrong.
And I want to drop to my knees in front of them.
She looks hotter than she did in high heels.
More at home.
More dangerous.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand before I can stop myself.
Smooth, Greyson. Real smooth.
She blinks up at me, and for a split second I see it—that shimmer of hurt before she shutters it behind attitude.
“Um, gee,” she says coolly, arching a brow. “Good morning?”
And for a moment, I actually hate myself.
Because I put that hurt there.
I square my shoulders instead of apologizing like a normal human being.
“Look,” I snap, because anger is easier than honesty, “I know who you are. Clara Belle. Belle’s & Whistles Tell All Blog. And you’re not gonna get a story out of me.”
Her expression changes—not wounded now.
Good, because I can’t stand the idea I hurt her.
She looks miffed. Offended.
I can handle that—I think.
She stands slowly.
Doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t back down.
Instead, she walks around the counter like she’s done it a hundred times.
Willow grins at her and nudges her along before physically shooing me away from the kitchen entrance.
And now I’m pissed for an entirely different reason.
Because Willow is supposed to be my friend.
And I’ve never been allowed behind that counter.
“Sit down, Grey,” Willow chides. “You know the rules.”
“I know I do,” I growl, dragging a hand down my beard. “But why is she here, Willow? You don’t know—”
“She’s a writer,” Willow cuts in. “Yes, I know. And yes, she came here to find the elusive Lumberjack Artist. And while we’re at it, why did you never tell me I was blowing you up online when you didn’t want to be found?”
Willow stands there looking indignant with her hands on her hips, eyes spitting fire at me.
At me? I’m the victim here!
I sputter.
Blink.
“What? I never said—shit, Willow, it was fine, No big deal. Besides, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Oh my God, Greyson, shut up.”
“It’s different with you and Thatcher, I know you guys. But she doesn’t belong here,” I insist, because that’s the part I understand.
“She’s a goddamn city slicker. She has no business on this mountain. I don’t want her here!”
The words are still hanging in the air when she rounds the corner.
Her face? It pales.
And I don’t even notice that Clara’s holding a glass of water. Don’t even connect the dots when her brows narrow and her lips purse.
So, yeah, before my idiot brain catches up—she lifts the glass and tosses its contents straight in my face.
Cold.
Sharp.
Perfect fucking aim.
The Lunchroom goes dead silent.
Water drips down my beard and off my nose.
Well.
Shit.
She steps closer, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed.
“Look,” she snaps. “I am an adult. You don’t even know me, and I sure as shit don’t know you.”
“Shit, Clara, I didn’t mean—”
She shakes her head, and I shut my mouth.
“No, I get it. What happened between us was consensual, I will own my part of that. But as you so nicely put it that morning when you showed me the door, it was a one and done—and thank God for that! But this is too much! How dare you think you get a say in where I belong?”
Her voice shakes—but not from fear.
From fury.
“Clara—”
“No. I’m not interested in your explanation. Just, you know what? Screw you, Greyson Cole!”
She storms around the back, and I stand there.
Feeling like an asshole.
Because I am an asshole.
And the worst part?
She’s right.
I don’t get a say in where she goes. In how she spends her time. Or who with.
And fuck, I sure as hell am not about to admit how much that bugs me.
Truth is, I chased her away because I was scared.
Because I wanted her, and that terrified me more than any mountain or bear ever has.
Letting her in? Letting her stay? That would mean risking something.
And I’ve built my entire life around not risking anything that can leave.
I wipe the water from my face slowly.
The whole room is watching.
Willow looks like she’s trying not to smile.
Thatcher—who must have come in at some point—leans against the wall like he’s witnessing a bar fight he absolutely approves of.
I stare after Clara.
Wishing I could still see her face.
She’s in the back, stacking cups or something, and every now and then I catch her elbow or her yellow clad foot.
Instead of seeing a city slicker, I see a woman who drove into a storm to find something.
A woman who’d been hurt and was brave enough to go off on her own.
A woman who chose to spend the night with a stranger, eyes wide open.
Who is courageous enough to try to live life to its fullest.
Clara didn’t just take my shitty attitude, and careless insults like she deserved them.
Nope. Not her. No way.
She threw water in my face instead of shrinking. She told me off.
Called me on my shit in public—and fuck that just makes my chest tighten again.
But not with anger.
With something worse.
Respect.
That’s when it hits me.
Not the water dripping down my beard.
Not the laughter someone tries to choke back.
Not even Willow’s I told you so glare.
The realization lands like a fist to the ribs.
I wasn’t protecting Clara last week.
I was protecting myself.
From wanting.
From hoping.
From the possibility that she could matter—and then leave.
And I might have just screwed up the best thing that’s happened to me in years beyond all fucking repair.
Because I really have turned into a coward.