Chapter 17
Greyson
It took me two days to grab my balls like Thatcher suggested.
Two days of pacing.
Of rewriting speeches in my head.
Of sanding edges and resealing wood that didn’t need it just so I wouldn’t have to admit I was scared.
Not of her.
Of what wanting her means.
First things first—I had to finish the sunflower table.
No half measures. No distractions.
If I was going to step out of hiding, I needed to do it clean.
I sealed the last coat, buffed the surface until the grain gleamed, and supervised the crating myself before it shipped off to the gallery hosting the exhibit of my work.
GCM’s work.
The Lumberjack Artist.
Yeah, the gallery leaned hard into that name.
My agent loves it.
Says it sells a narrative people can latch onto. I let her handle most of the publicity because I don’t want my face plastered next to my art.
But the sunflower table?
That’s the centerpiece.
My agent nearly cried when I confirmed it.
Said it felt like a turning point.
She has no fucking idea.
Once the crate was loaded and gone, I caught my reflection in the workshop window.
Jesus. I looked like shit.
Beard thick and wild. Hair long enough to tie back without thinking. Eyes darker than usual.
I looked like a man who hadn’t spoken to another human in months.
I looked like someone hiding.
So I drove into town.
Woke the barber up at five in the damn morning.
He cursed me out until I handed him a stack of hundreds.
Then he shut up and got to work.
When he finished, I almost didn’t recognize myself.
Still me.
Just a little less feral.
Back home, I showered until the hot water ran lukewarm.
Scrubbed off sawdust and stain and a week’s worth of self-pity.
Dug through my closet for something clean that didn’t scream reclusive lunatic.
My options are limited.
Flannel. Jeans. Boots.
Still, I tried. I mean, at least these were clean.
Then I stood in the middle of my cabin and looked around.
Small. Old. Functional.
The porch steps uneven.
The paint chipped.
The place is semi-solid, but grossly bare.
I should’ve fixed it up years ago.
The thought hits me out of nowhere.
Why am I even thinking about this?
Because women change shit.
That’s the truth.
They see empty corners and imagine curtains. See rough edges and picture sanding them smooth.
And I’ve built my life around not changing.
Around staying still.
But lately?
I don’t want to hide anymore.
I don’t want to just survive.
I want to live.
I want to be brave enough to choose my life instead of letting fear choose it for me.
But first—I have to apologize.
So I get my ass to the sawmill and I wait.
I pretend I’m just stopping by.
Pretend I don’t feel like my heart’s trying to claw out of my chest.
When I see her Jeep pull into the lot, I grin despite myself.
Brand new. Shiny. And bright fucking yellow.
Someone must’ve traded in their Tesla.
Good.
She doesn’t belong stranded on mountain roads, anyway.
Not her.
Clara is the kind of woman who conquers them.
While I waited these last two days, I did my homework.
Clara Belle isn’t some na?ve blogger chasing clicks.
Her family owns Belle Networking Group. She grew up in rooms with more money than I did.
But she didn’t turn into one of them.
The people I grew up with and ran from.
Clara’s parents? They’re solid.
Her family life? Vastly different from mine.
She’s smart. She graduated from NYU. English lit. Creative writing. Journalism—the old-school kind that cares about truth more than traffic.
And I’ve been reading her blog.
Every damn post from the last eight months.
She’s good.
Real good.
Honest in a way that makes your throat tighten because she doesn’t sugarcoat the hard parts.
She writes about city life like she’s both in love with it and suffocating under it.
And last but not least—when I was cleaning the cabin, I found her panties in the towel pile she left behind.
I’d be embarrassed to admit what I’ve done with them since.
Truth is, I haven’t stopped thinking about her.
About the way she felt in my arms.
In my bed.
Soft and warm and real against me.
I’ve taken myself in hand more times this week than I have all year.
Because every time I close my eyes, I see her.
And now she’s here.
Walking toward the Lunchroom in cropped jeans that hug every curve in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
An oversized sweatshirt with giant lemons on it hangs off one shoulder like she didn’t try too hard—and somehow that makes it worse.
And those ugly yellow Crocs.
They get stuck in the mud halfway across the lot.
She stumbles slightly, reaching out for balance.
She rights herself quickly, brushing mud from those ridiculous yellow Crocs like nothing happened.
Like she didn’t just knock the wind out of me by existing.
I sit there in my truck longer than I should.
Watching her through the windshield.
Watching the way she laughs at something Willow says.
The way she tucks her hair behind her ear.
The way she moves like she belongs here.
She steals my breath.
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.
The words feel strange in my mouth. Heavy. Necessary.
“I shouldn’t have made you leave like that. I shouldn’t have assumed the worst. That wasn’t about you.”
Her brow furrows. “Then what was it about?”
Because I’m scared.
Because I wanted you.
Because I don’t know how to let someone matter without thinking they’ll leave.
“I panicked,” I admit. “You showed up, and you changed everything. Faster than I was ready for.”
Her lips part slightly, and I force myself to keep going.
“I’ve spent years making sure no one gets close enough to walk away,” I say. “It’s easier that way. Cleaner.”
The wind shifts between us, lifting a strand of her hair across her cheek.
“And instead of being honest about that,” I continue, “I shoved you out before you could decide to leave on your own.”
Her hand is still in mine.
Warm.
Real.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, and this time it’s not just a word—it’s the truth laid bare.
I don’t squeeze her fingers hard. Just enough to let her know I’m here.
“I don’t want you gone,” I tell her quietly. “And I don’t see you as a threat. Or some blogger chasing a headline. I see you, Clara.”
Her eyes shine, and it damn near undoes me.
“And I’m asking,” I finish, swallowing every ounce of pride I’ve got, “for a chance to get to know you. To do this right. Don’t leave yet. Not like this.”
It’s the most exposed I’ve felt in years.
And for once—I don’t look away.