Page 7 of My Lumberjack Valentine

“Really?” Rosalie’s eyebrows twitch upward. “How come?”

“Don’t believe in the whole happily ever after thing. Hell, I don’t believe in true love, period.”

She frowns at me, looking confused. “How can you not believe in true love? It’s everywhere! Just look at Hope Peak and all the happy couples celebrating Valentine’s Day this year.”

“Don’t get me started on Valentine’s Day,” I grumble, resisting the urge to rant. I don’t want to act like a grumpy old asshole, even if that’s exactly what I am.

“What’s wrong with it?” Rosalie asks. “It’s a celebration of love.”

“It’s a scam to sell more roses and chocolates. All those flowers and love hearts—it’s just another unrealistic fantasy to sell to people.”

“Well, I think you’re wrong.” Rosalie crosses her arms, eyes flashing with defiance. “Sure, Valentine’s Day is pretty commercialized, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a real meaning behind the holiday.”

I shrug, unconvinced. “Guess I’m just a cynic. It’s hard to believe in the message of Valentine’s Day when you don’t believe in love in the first place.”

Rosalie opens her mouth to argue, but seems to think better of it.

“Well, even if you don’t believe in true love, we need to figure out a meet-cute.”

“A what?”

“The story of how we met.” She looks at me thoughtfully, twirling a strand of pink hair around her finger. “Maybe I was struggling to open a jar of jawbreakers…you came in looking for chocolate…offered to open the jar for me…love at first sight?”

“Works for me.”

She nods. “Simple but believable. When did we meet?”

“Just before Christmas,” I suggest. “Grandpa will be suspicious if I act like I’ve been hiding a relationship any longer than that.”

Rosalie lets out a deep breath. “Okay, that works. How long until he gets here?”

“About thirty minutes,” I say, my eyes flickering toward the clock. “We should go over our favorite things: food, TV shows, music…”

The next half an hour is spent listing every single one of our likes and dislikes, cramming in as much as we can before Grandpa arrives, almost like we’re studying for a pop quiz. I try to memorize all Rosalie’s favorite things—candy, rom-coms, sausage dogs, oversized sweaters, the color pink, spring, hot chocolate, 80s pop music—until I hear Grandpa’s vintage Cadillac pull up outside.

“Oh, God,” Rosalie says. “Is that him?”

“Yep. You ready?”

“Definitely not. But I guess I’ll have to be.”

The worry on her face makes me pause. She looks beautiful and terrified as hell, and I instinctively reach out to touch her arm. “You don’t have to do this, Rosalie. You can back out right now and I’ll understand.”

Those pretty eyes meet mine, and she smiles. “Thanks, Boone, but it’s okay. I can do this.”

“I know you can. You’ll be great.”

A moment later, Grandpa knocks, and with one last reassuring look at Rosalie, I head to the door and open it.

5

ROSALIE

My stomach is churningas Boone heads for the door. I’ve never been a good liar, and now I have to convince a stranger that I’m in a committed relationship with a guy I met yesterday. It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever done, but if we can pull it off, it will all be worth it. Pretending to date a hot lumberjack is a small price to pay to keep my candy store.

Boone shoots me a quick look of reassurance as he grabs the handle, and my heart jolts beneath my rib cage. It’s like my body didn’t get the memo that none of this is real. Heck, even my brain is struggling with it. This morning, I spent ages getting dressed and doing my hair, trying to look pretty for Boone. I wanted to impress him. Kind of dumb, considering this man is a total grump who doesn’t believe in love or relationships.

Deep breaths, Rosalie.

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