Page 20 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Lumberjack

This time is different. Slower. He pins my wrists above my head with one hand, enters me with a long stroke that makes us both groan. His forehead against mine, eyes open.

"Stay," he murmurs, driving deep. "Stay with me."

"I'm here."

His free hand slides between us. Thumb on my clit. Firm, precise circles timed with every thrust. My back arches off the mattress.

"Come for me, Hattie." Voice ragged. "Let me feel it."

I shatter around him, clenching tight. He follows three strokes later with my name on his lips.

Afterward, he pulls me against his chest. Maple jumps on the bed, settles at our feet. The room is quiet, warm, full.

"Your kindergarteners are gonna have questions on Monday," he says.

"Marcus is going to write a report."

His chest shakes with laughter. The real kind. My favorite sound in the world.

"I'll be here," he says into my hair. "Friday afternoons. Whenever you want."

"Every Friday."

"Every Friday."

Through the bedroom door, I can see the hallway. Cora's photo on the mantel, smiling. The empty closet space, waiting. A house that finally feels like it's breathing again.

Wrong number. Right man. And he drove three hours to tell a five year old he was my boyfriend.

That's enough. That's everything.

EPILOGUE

WALDEN

EIGHT MONTHS LATER

The ring has been in my sock drawer for three weeks.

Not because I'm nervous. I've cut wood on a screaming table saw since I was eighteen, pulled a flatbed through mountain roads in January, buried the woman I married at twenty six. Nervous isn't really in my vocabulary anymore.

But Hattie Bloom deserves better than a sock drawer proposal from a man with sawdust in his hair. Cora got a sunrise proposal on the ridge behind the mill. She said yes before I finished the question, then made me start over because she wanted to remember the whole thing.

So the ring waits. A simple diamond from the jewelry store in town, where the owner didn't even blink when I walked in because apparently Patty Cole had already called ahead.

"Wal, the coffee maker is doing the thing again."

Hattie's voice carries from the kitchen. Our kitchen. Because four months ago she packed her apartment in Reno, loaded a moving truck, and drove three hours into these mountains with two suitcases, a dead succulent she insists is just resting, and a cardboard box labeled UNDERWEAR COLLECTION (INAPPROPRIATE) that she made me carry inside in front of Patty Cole's parked car.

Patty hasn't stopped talking about it since.

The coffee maker is not doing a thing. The coffee maker is fine. Hattie just doesn't press the button hard enough because she's used to her old single serve machine that responded to a gentle suggestion. Mine requires commitment.

"Press harder," I call from the bedroom, pulling on my boots.

"I AM pressing harder."

"Press like you mean it."