Page 11 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Lumberjack

And the words die in my mouth.

He's tall. Broad through the chest, the kind of build that comes from actual labor. Dark brown hair shot through with silver, cut short. A full beard going gray at the corners. Deep brown eyes with tired lines at the edges. Sawdust on his forearms, on his jeans, on the henley with the sleeves pushed up over thick wrists.

He's forty and looks it. Worn, weathered, lived in. Real.

His eyes find mine. Something moves across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition, which makes no sense because we've never met.

Then his gaze drops to the sign above the mill door. I follow it.

KIRBY CUSTOM MILL.

Custom sawyer. Dog named Maple. Brother who calls on Tuesdays.

A three hour drive from Reno.

The blood drains from my face so fast my vision blurs at the edges. My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"Oh." My voice comes out strangled. "Oh no."

He stares at me. Those dark brown eyes locked on mine, jaw tight beneath the beard. One hand gripping the door frame. The other hanging at his side, fingers twitching once.

"Kindergarten Teacher," he says.

His voice is low. Rough. The voice of a man who doesn't use it much, and I've been imagining it for three months without knowing what it sounded like, and now it sounds like that and every text message I've ever sent this man is crashing through my brain at full speed.

The underwear text. The Brad rant. The 2 AM messages when I couldn't sleep. The Wednesday night wine confession where I described my ideal man and it was him. The time he told me he hadn't wanted anyone in two years. Until recently. About three months.

"I need a tow truck," I whisper.

He doesn't move. Doesn't stop looking at me.

"My car broke down on 93." My cheeks are burning. My entire body is burning. "The GPS routed me through here. I didn't know. I swear I didn't know."

Still nothing. Just those eyes on mine, his chest rising once, slowly, like he's deciding something.

Then Walden Kirby steps back from the door frame, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his phone. Not to call a tow truck. He turns the screen toward me.

My contact in his phone. No name. Just a single letter.

K.

For Kindergarten Teacher.

He saved my number. Three months ago, the first morning, he saved it. My eyes sting and I press my fingers to my mouth because if I open it right now something stupid is going to come out.

"Tow truck won't get here until morning," he says quietly. "Parker's Auto is closed after five."

"Okay."

"There's a bed and breakfast in town. Or." He pauses. Jaw flexes. "I've got a spare room."

We stand there. Eight feet apart. Three months of texts between us and eight feet of gravel parking lot, his dog leaning against my shins, and his eyes are asking a question he's too careful to say out loud.

"The spare room," I say.

He nods once. Turns back toward the mill.

"Come on, then."