Page 8 of Claimed By the Lumberjack

“What is it about?”

He hesitates, then says, “People see something, and then they make up a version of you that fits their fantasy. Doesn’t matter if it’s true.”

“And you hate being someone’s fantasy?”

“I hate being reduced to one.” His voice is quiet. Weighted.

I nod, watching the fire. “I get that.”

He doesn’t answer, but I feel a shift, a slight softening of tension in the room. The way he sits a little closer to the edge of his seat. The way our silences don’t feel so pointed now.

I lie back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “This isn’t how I thought today would go,” I say into the quiet.

Sawyer’s voice drifts back. “Less rain. Fewer trees.”

“Less grumpy hot guy with an axe.”

I swear I hear him chuckle. Just barely.

Outside, the storm begins to fade, but inside, something is just beginning. I close my eyes, wrapped in warmth, and I’m not in such a rush to leave anymore.

Chapter Four

Sawyer

The storm’s long gone by the time the first light hits the cabin, but I’ve been up for hours.

It’s the kind of quiet morning I usually enjoy, cool air creeping through the cracks, birds starting their chatter, the scent of woodsmoke still clinging to everything. Peaceful. Simple. Except now a woman is sleeping in front of the fire.

She started the night in my bed up in the loft, but after a few hours, she came back down with blankets and a pillow. She made a bed in front of the fireplace and drifted right off to sleep.

I lean against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and watching the soft rise and fall of her breath from across the room. The fire’s low, flickering embers now, but she’s bundled in the flannel I gave her, tangled up in a blanket like she belongs here.

She doesn’t. She doesn’t belong in my space, or my quiet, or in my thoughts, which she’s taken over with ridiculous ease.

I should’ve driven her back to town yesterday, but the road’s still blocked, and the ground’s too soft to risk the truck. That’s what I tell myself. That’s the reason she’s still here. It’s not because I like the sound of her laugh. Not because I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked standing in my clothes, wet hair curling around her neck, eyes bright with challenge. Not that.

She stirs, groaning softly, and blinks against the morning light. “Is that coffee?” she murmurs, her voice scratchy with sleep.

“Yes.”

She stretches, the flannel riding up just enough to flash a strip of bare thigh before she tugs the blanket higher. My eyes snap away too late. She must have taken the sweatpants off at some point.

I fill the second mug and hand it to her. “Careful. It’s hot.”

She accepts it with a sleepy smile. “So are you.”

I blink.

“I mean your coffee’s hot too,” she adds quickly, eyes wide. “Wow. That came out wrong.”

I smirk just a little. “Too early for flirting?”

“Never.”

She sits up, the blanket falling onto her lap. The sunlight catches the gold in her hair, and I find myself watching the way she cradles the mug, fingers curled tight like she needs the warmth.

“Did you sleep?” I ask.

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