Page 12 of Her Obsessed Lumberjack

“This is home,” I say, carrying the pumpkins as I lead Freya to the front door.

“It’s incredible!” Her eyes are wide as she takes it all in before eagerly following me into the living room. The fire I lit this morning is still blazing in the hearth, and stepping into the cabin feels like sinking into a warm bath.

Chloe helped me decorate the place, filling it with overstuffed furniture and plush rugs. It’s rustic but comfortable, with views of the forest and the creek.

“I’ve never seen such a beautiful place,” Freya says, her mouth hanging open. “It’s so cozy.”

“Glad you like it.”

“It must be so peaceful out here.” She looks at me curiously as I gesture for her to take a seat. “How do you like living in the woods?”

“It’s a big change from Phoenix.” I set the pumpkins on the table and join Freya on the couch, reaching out to warm my hands by the fire.

“A good change?”

I don’t answer right away. I consider her question as I stare into the crackling flames, finally saying, “Some days, yes. Other days…” I shrug. “I get a lot of time to think out here. Maybe too much.”

The fire spits, embers burning bright orange, and I feel my mind shift before I can stop it.

Flames billowing from an apartment block, ripping through the building. Thick smoke filling my lungs, fire fighters shouting, people screaming, boots thudding as I charge inside to help. My eyes are burning. Can’t breathe. Too many people to save, not enough time to get them all…not enough air…

“Roman?”

The sound of my name jerks me back to reality, and I see Freya’s sweet face swimming before me, her brow furrowed in concern. Her hand is touching my arm, the soft skin of her fingers gripping me tight, keeping me grounded.

“Sorry,” I say, shaking off the memories and trying to look casual.

“Don’t be sorry.” She smiles reassuringly, squeezing my arm. “Were you having a flashback?”

Her words surprise me.

Was it really that obvious?

She seems to recognize my surprise and says, “My mom had PTSD a few years ago. She dealt with a lot of flashbacks. Her eyes would go blank, and she would zone out, but it didn’t look like a daydream…it was more intense.” Freya frowns like she’s remembering. “She’d get this scared look on her face and her body would tense up. Then eventually she’d sort of just…come back to herself, if that makes sense.”

I swallow hard, my skin prickling when she says PTSD. It’s something I’ve been pushing to the back of my mind, trying not to confront head on. Admitting I have a problem feels like cowardice. Weakness. It feels almost like I’m admitting I wasn’t up to the job. But I push those thoughts aside as I process what Freya just said.

“I’m sorry your mom dealt with that,” I tell her, feeling a twinge of sympathy in my gut. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s okay, you can ask.” Freya pulls her knees up onto the couch, hugging them to her chest. “She was in an accident. A kid ran out into the road and she hit him with her car.”

My stomach drops. “Shit.”

“He was okay,” she adds quickly. “His arm was broken, but they fixed it up in the hospital and he was totally fine. It reallyshook my mom up, though. It affected her for a long time, but she’s doing much better now. No more flashbacks to the accident.” She smiles at me, her soft hand still touching my arm. Her eyes are glowing in the firelight, and I feel like she’s looking straight through me, seeing deep into my soul.

“Your mom…” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral, “how did she get better?”

“She started talking to somebody. It helped her a lot. She was able to work through all her emotions about what happened.” Her face falls as she adds, “You must have seen a lot of scary things when you were a cop. I can’t even imagine.”

I nod. “It was a tough job. You work as a cop for long enough, and you end up seeing at least one thing that fucks you up.” There’s so much more I could say, but I’m not about to unload all my problems onto this sweet angel. I don’t need to burden her with any of my crap.

“Anyway,” I say, rolling up my sleeves, “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to bake some pie.”

Freya lets me change the subject without comment. With a smile, she jumps up from the couch. “Let’s do it!”

We getbusy scooping out the pumpkins before baking and pureeing them. I instruct Freya how to make the filling, and she looks adorably nervous as she cracks eggs into the mixture.

“Shoot,” she mutters, fishing out a big chunk of shell. “I should warn you now, I’m not much of a baker.”

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