Page 22 of Claimed By the Lumberjack

I wrap my arms around her from behind, chin on her shoulder. “Thought you might like it.”

She rests her hands over mine, and we stand like that for a while, swaying gently in the breeze, completely wrapped up in each other. Then she turns in my arms, slides her fingers into my hoodie, and tugs me closer, kissing me deeply.

My hands slide under her flannel, over the soft curve of her waist. She presses against me, rising on her toes, mouth warm and sweet. When she pulls back, her breath is uneven. Her cheeks flushed.

“I’m going to keep kissing you in inappropriate outdoor locations,” she says.

“Good.”

She tilts her head. “That was very un-Sawyer of you.”

“Maybe I’m evolving.”

“Careful. You might get a reputation for being romantic.”

I lean in and kiss her again—just to prove a point. And maybe because I can’t not kiss her. We kiss for what feels like hours. Against trees. Against the boulder. In the slanting light of late morning, with no audience but the forest.

Eventually, she exhales a dreamy sigh and presses her forehead to mine. “I don’t want to go back yet.”

“Then we won’t.”

We sit on the rock, shoulder to shoulder, sharing a bottle of water and the last granola bar in the pack. She picks out the chocolate chips and feeds them to me, grinning the whole time.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, I realize this isn’t temporary.

She might still leave. She might still have a plane ticket or a deadline waiting for her, but what’s growing between us? It’s not just something we’ll both look back on and smile about someday. This is a before-and-after. This is where everything changes.

If she asks me to follow her, wherever she goes, I already know my answer.

Chapter Eleven

Tessa

The clock reads 2:17 AM. I turn over, again, pressing my face into Sawyer’s pillow, breathing in cedar and smoke and the faint scent of his skin. But it doesn’t help. My eyes refuse to close. My brain refuses to be quiet.

The cabin is still, but my thoughts are loud. The pictures. The camera. The feeling of being watched.

Even with Sawyer here with me, I can’t fully shake the unease curling low in my belly. I’m safe here. I know I am. But the idea of someone out there, in the trees, watching us while we sleep—it gets in your head and refuses to leave.

Eventually, I give up.

I slide out of bed quietly, wrapping myself in one of Sawyer’s flannels and tiptoeing barefoot down the ladder.

The living room is dark, save for the orange glow of the fire, now low and soft in the hearth. And Sawyer’s there sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring into the flames like they’re talking back to him.

His hoodie hangs loose over broad shoulders, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair is tousled, jaw shadowed in scruff. He looks wrecked in the most beautiful, soul-twisting way. Tired but still so damn steady.

Like, even at 2 AM, he’d carry the weight of the world for me if I asked.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask softly.

He doesn’t startle. Just glances at me, then pats the space next to him. “Come here.”

I go to him without thinking. Instead of sitting beside him, I climb onto his lap and curl against his chest, legs draped across his, my cheek pressing to his collarbone.

His arms wrap around me instantly. One big hand cradles my thigh. The other strokes slowly up and down my spine. And just like that, I can breathe again.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

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