Chapter 16
Clara
A day passes.
Then two.
I keep telling myself I don’t care.
I keep telling myself I’m busy.
I keep telling myself I’m not watching the window like a lovesick idiot waiting for a man who made it very clear—very clear—he didn’t want me.
But when I got here this morning, his truck was out there.
I know it’s his because it’s the only one in the lot that doesn’t have a McCrae logo painted on the side.
Everything else looks like it belongs to a hardworking, well-organized family business.
His truck looks more like it belongs to a man who fights the world.
Every time the door opens, my stomach jumps.
Every time it closes, and it’s not him, I feel ridiculous for hoping.
I’ve been coming in daily to help Willow with prep work.
Not because I’m trying to earn a place here—okay, maybe a little—but because she’s pregnant and exhausted and morning sickness has been chewing her up even now that she’s hit the second trimester.
And honestly?
I’m happy to do it.
Chopping vegetables.
Wiping counters.
Folding napkins.
Refilling coffee.
It’s simple. It’s useful. It’s the kind of work that doesn’t require me to pretend everything is fine when it isn’t.
I’ve spoken to my parents, too.
Let them know where I am and that I’m safe.
They’re still in Sydney—some charity gala circuit that sounds glamorous until you realize it’s just a different kind of work.
My mother, shockingly, didn’t panic. She didn’t even lecture.
She sounded pleased.
“Good,” she’d said, voice crisp, like she’d been waiting for me to do it for years. “He never deserved you.”
Then she informed me, as casually as if she’d been discussing grocery delivery, that Geoffrey had been escorted out of my apartment.
His belongings boxed and shipped to his last known address.
And the ring?
The one that moron asked me to give back, even though it is my mother’s ring?
Arnold, my doorman—sweet, loyal Arnold—handed it to my mother’s assistant, who locked it in my mother’s safe.
Done. Handled. Erased.
No guilt.
No lingering ties.
Thank God.
So why do I still feel like such shit?
Maybe because I came here with this idea in my head. This clean, cinematic version of what I needed.
I wanted to talk to the man who etched mountains and sunsets and willows into wood and leather and iron.
The artist whose work made me feel like the world could still be beautiful and honest, and real.
I wanted to tell him that.
To say thank you.
To have one meaningful conversation and then go back to my life feeling a little braver. A little less hollow.
Instead?
I ended up in his bed.
And then I got shoved out like a problem.
And now it feels like he hates me.
Which—of course—because why wouldn’t my life be this obnoxiously ironic?
The Lunchroom hums around me, warm and busy.
A couple of guys come in for coffee.
Someone laughs at the counter.
Willow’s radio plays softly in the background—some country song about heartbreak that feels like it’s mocking me personally.
I’m wiping down a prep table when Willow sighs dramatically and leans back against the counter like her spine is made of cooked spaghetti.
“Clara,” she says, “you can finish up for the day. Lunch is easy. Chicken and dumplings are already in the big crock-pot. And we’re doing DIY turkey BLTs.”
I glance at her, then at the table that’s holding trays of fixings and two enormous crock pots.
“What about dessert? Need help with that?” I ask.
“What do you mean? Maybe I haven’t made any,” she teases.
“I can smell your apple crisp, Willow.”
And I can because holy hell this woman can cook.
Her eyes light up like I just told her she’s the most beautiful woman on earth.
“This baby must have a craving for apples,” she says, patting her belly. “I swear, I can’t get enough of them.”
“That baby is a genius,” I mutter, because the scent alone is making my mouth water.
Willow’s smile fades into something gentler. She watches me for a long second, too quiet.
“Seriously,” she says softly, “are you okay? I know the other day must have been hard with Greyson coming in here and saying all those things.”
My throat tightens instantly. The question lands too close to the truth.
“Who, me?” I say too fast, too bright. “Yeah. Of course. It was nothing.”
I turn my head so she won’t see the way my eyes sting.
Willow makes a sound—half snort, half sigh.
“Yeah, right. You suck at fibbing.”
Busted.
I set the cloth down carefully, like my hands might shake if I don’t.
“It’s just…” I start, then stop because my throat is already tight.
I inhale slowly, steadying myself.
“It’s true. I did come here to find the Lumberjack Artist.”
The confession comes out softer than I mean it to. Smaller.
Like I’m admitting to something reckless and a little pathetic instead of honest.
“But I didn’t come here to expose him,” I add quickly. “I would never do that. I don’t even—” I shake my head, frustrated with myself. “That’s not who I am.”
My fingers curl against the edge of the stainless steel table, cold and grounding.
“And I guess…” My voice wobbles, and I hate that it does. I clear my throat, trying to swallow the stupid emotion back down. “I guess it just hurt. That he assumed that.”
There it is.
Ugly and raw.
I shrug like it’s nothing.
Like my chest doesn’t feel cracked wide open.
Like I’m not standing here trying very hard not to cry in Willow’s kitchen like the dramatic lead in a low-budget heartbreak movie.
God, I hate this.
I hate feeling exposed.
I hate caring this much.
I hate that one man’s opinion can crawl under my skin and stay there.
I should leave.
I know that.
Go back to my life.
Back to my apartment with the skyline view and the coffee shop on the corner and the comfort of knowing exactly how my days will unfold.
But I don’t want to.
The city feels loud now. Shallow. Like everything is curated and filtered and slightly performative.
Here? It’s messy. Honest. Real.
I like waking up to the smell of coffee and sawdust. I like Willow’s easy laughter.
I like Kelly’s sharp, brave heart and the way little Evan, Kelly’s son, still looks at the world like it hasn’t betrayed him yet despite his rat father.
Hell, I even like talking to Thatcher—who is, frankly, more marshmallow than terrifying mountain brute once you get past the beard.
Even the mill guys—gruff and blunt and surprisingly kind—feel more genuine than half the people I used to dine with in heels and pearls.
“Oh, Clara,” Willow says gently, “you know Greyson doesn’t mean to—”
“Oh, I don’t blame him,” I cut in quickly, because that feels safer than admitting how much he got to me. “And I don’t expect you to take my side. You’ve known him so much longer. That wouldn’t be fair.”
I laugh softly, but it’s brittle.
“Besides, is it even fair for me to have my idiot feelings hurt? He doesn’t know me. For all he knows, I really could be some morally corrupt blogger who doesn’t care if she ruins people’s lives.”
The words sting as they leave my mouth.
Because part of me wonders if that’s what he saw when he looked at me.
A risk.
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.
“Can I talk to you for a minute, Clara?” Greyson asks.
His voice is careful now.
Not icy. Not accusing. Not sharp.
Careful, like he knows he’s standing on thin ice and one wrong word will crack it.
I swallow.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Willow makes a shooing gesture with both hands that she probably believes is subtle, but it’s about as subtle as a marching band.
“Go,” she mouths at me, eyes wide with encouragement.
I glare at her.
Then I look back at Greyson—at the way his shoulders are tight, at the way he’s holding himself like he’s bracing for impact.
Part of me wants to throw another glass of water at him.
Part of me wants to demand answers.
Part of me wants to be held again, which is humiliating and inconvenient and very, very real.
I lift my chin.
“Fine,” I say, because my pride demands firmness even if my voice shakes. “I’ll talk to you.”