Page 10 of Claimed By the Lumberjack

“You ever think about leaving?” she asks after a long minute.

“Leaving what?”

“The mountain. The quiet. Starting over somewhere else.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“This is where I belong.”

She nods slowly, like she’s filing the answer away. “What about family?”

I stiffen. “Not here anymore.”

Her eyes flick to mine. “Is that why you like the quiet so much?”

I don’t answer. Just sip my water and stare out at the trees. She doesn’t push.

Instead, she leans closer, bumping her shoulder into mine. “I get it,” she says quietly. “It’s easier to hear your thoughts out here.”

“Not always a good thing.”

She smiles, soft and sad and sweet. “Depends on the thoughts.”

The moment stretches, warm and quiet. Then her hand brushes against mine, barely a graze, but enough. I look down, surprised by the softness of it, and by the way, she doesn’t pull away. Neither do I. Her fingers shift, slow, uncertain, and then settle lightly on top of mine.

We sit there like that for a while. Just breathing. Just touching. Eventually, I stand, and she follows.

Back inside, she helps me prep for lunch, chopping vegetables like she knows what she’s doing. We move easily around each other, passing bowls, bumping hips, trading teasing insults.

At one point, I reach for the salt at the same time she does, and our fingers brush again. She looks up, startled. We’re close now. Close enough to see the flecks of green in her eyes. The tiny scar on her cheekbone. The way her breath hitches when I don’t move away.

The air shifts and becomes heavy, charged. But before I can lean in, before I can cross that final inch, she turns away.

“Your soup’s gonna burn,” she says, voice light, but I see her hands tremble just a little.

After lunch, she insists on washing the dishes again. I don’t argue. I watch her instead. The way her hair falls into her eyes. The way she hums under her breath.

When she’s done, she leans back against the sink and meets my gaze. “You’re not as scary as you pretend to be.”

“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

She grins. “Too late.”

I should keep my distance. I should remember that she’s temporary. That she doesn’t belong here. That she has a life waiting for her somewhere that’s not this mountain, not this cabin, not me. But when she smiles at me like that, all soft and sunlit and sure, I forget.

Chapter Five

Tessa

There’s a stillness in the cabin tonight that feels different than before. Last night, it was stormy, chaotic, full of wet clothes and sarcastic barbs, and me tripping over my curiosity. But tonight, the quiet is softer, yet heavy with the promise of something, like the whole place is holding its breath.

Sawyer’s sitting on the couch, firelight casting golden shadows across his face. His hair’s damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends, and he’s wearing a worn navy T-shirt and sweatpants that hang low on his hips.

I hate that I’ve noticed all of this. I hate even more that Ikeepnoticing. There’s something about the way he looks tonight. Not just the way his shirt clings to those arms or the hint of stubble along his jaw. It’s the way he’s so still, watchful, bracing for something.

“Beer?” he asks, nodding toward the bottle on the coffee table.

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