Chapter 18
Clara
My heart is thundering in my chest like a herd of wild horses.
Greyson is standing in front of me in the sawmill lot—tall, steady, flannel and work boots like he was born out of pine and wishes—and he just apologized like it cost him blood.
Now he’s still holding my hand.
Still looking at me like he’s waiting for a verdict.
And I’m pretty sure—pretty sure—Greyson Cole, reclusive mountain man and secret-famous Lumberjack Artist, is asking me out.
But my brain doesn’t trust anything right now.
So I do what I always do when I’m overwhelmed.
I clarify.
“Are—are you asking me out?” I blurt, then cringe. “Like on a date?”
His dark eyes go wide, and it’s almost funny how startled he looks—like the word date never even entered his mind.
Like he just knew he didn’t want me gone and his caveman instincts translated that into be near her.
For a second I feel stupid.
Heat crawls up my neck.
I tug my hand, trying to slide free.
He tightens his grip—gentle but firm—like he can’t bear the thought of letting go.
Then he swallows, visibly gathering himself.
“Y-yes,” he says, rough. “I guess I am.”
His ears go slightly pink.
Which is unfair.
This man is absurdly hot.
Like almost offensively gorgeous.
And he’s standing here getting flustered like a shy teenage boy.
“Will you go out with me?” he asks, words coming faster now, like if he slows down he’ll lose his nerve. “Tonight?”
I blink at him.
Me? He really wants to ask me out?
Not some sleek woman who belongs in magazines and rooftop lounges. Not someone who makes sense on his arm if he ever had to step into the spotlight.
Me. Clara Belle. Recently single, currently living in a borrowed room, wearing another woman’s Crocs like it’s not a problem.
I feel a laugh bubble up, but it comes out soft.
“Okay,” I say, because I’m not going to pretend I don’t want to. “I’ll go out with you.”
His shoulders drop like he’s been holding his breath for a week.
“But,” I add quickly, because my sanity requires boundaries, “is this a real date?”
His brow furrows. “Real?”
“Like—” I gesture between us. “You’re going to pick me up from my place—Kelly’s place. We’re going to go somewhere public. Not just back to your cabin. Not redo whatever that was last week.”
His jaw flexes, like he feels the sting of that.
Good. He should.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “A real date.”
“And we’re going to do what?” I ask, trying to sound casual, even though my pulse is still going insane. “Eat dinner?”
“That,” he says immediately, nodding hard like he’s grateful I gave him a script. “Yes. That.”
I can’t help smiling. “Okay then. Yes, I accept.”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile, too.
“What time?” I ask.
He blinks. “Time?”
I raise a brow. “This is usually how dates work, Greyson.”
He exhales a rough laugh, like he can’t believe he’s this out of practice. “Seven?”
“Seven,” I repeat, testing it. “Sure. I’ll be ready.”
And then he smiles.
Not a smirk. Not a guarded half-expression.
A real, genuine smile that transforms his whole face.
Holy shit.
My heart actually stops for a second, then restarts at a faster pace like it’s trying to make up for lost time.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he says, voice low like it means something.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He doesn’t let go of my hand right away.
He steps closer instead, and my breath catches because suddenly he’s in my space again and my body remembers everything.
“And Clara?” he says.
“Yeah?” My voice comes out too soft.
His gaze drops to my shoes—those ridiculous yellow Crocs—and then back up to my face.
“Wear something yellow,” he murmurs.
I swallow. My throat goes tight in the most inconvenient way.
“Okay,” I manage, nodding.
Something warm flickers in his eyes—something like satisfaction, like he just claimed a tiny piece of me, and it feels right.
Then he finally releases my hand.
And he’s gone—striding away like a man who can’t afford to look back.
Except, I do look.
Oh, I look.
Because watching Greyson Cole walk away in a pair of worn Levi’s should be illegal in at least twelve states.
My brain is still spinning when I turn and practically sprint back inside the Lunchroom.
Willow is at the window like she’s been stationed there on purpose, watching the parking lot with the intensity of a sports commentator.
The second I walk in, she whips around, eyes bright.
“What did he say?” she demands.
I press a hand to my chest like it’s going to keep my heart from launching out of my ribcage.
“He asked me out,” I whisper.
Willow’s face explodes into joy. “He did!”
“Yes!” I squeal, then clamp my mouth shut like I’m not a grown woman who just squealed in public. “And—” I lower my voice dramatically even though there’s no one close enough to hear, “he told me to wear yellow.”
Willow blinks. “Yellow?”
“Mm-hmm.” I glance down at my—her— Crocs like they’re suddenly prophetic. “Apparently yellow is a theme in my life now.”
Willow’s smile turns sly.
“Oh, honey. I think yellow is a theme in his life now.”
My cheeks heat.
“And so is going out with emotionally unavailable mountain men,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
Willow points at me.
“Nope. We’re not doing that. Not today. Today we’re doing romantic redemption date.”
She pulls her phone out like she’s about to call in an emergency response team.
“I’m calling Kelly,” she announces. “We’re getting you outfitted for a night in Woodhaven.”
I laugh nervously. “Willow, it’s not Manhattan.”
“I know,” she says, eyes gleaming. “That’s why this is fun. There are only, like, four places he can take you.”
She taps her chin, thinking hard, then gasps like she just remembered something life-changing.
“Oh! Wait. There’s a spring carnival in the big lot behind the middle school. It starts tonight.”
My stomach flips again—softer this time.
A carnival.
Lights. Music.
Something sweet in my hands.
Greyson beside me in public.
“Maybe,” I say, and I hate how hopeful it sounds.
Willow grins like she can see the whole story unfolding already.
“Oh,” she says, grabbing my arm. “Definitely.”