Page 80 of Jealous Lumberjack

I turn my head, press my lips to his jaw. “If they did, she wouldn’t have been talking about us raising a family.”

His chest heaves once. Twice. Then it stops altogether.

The silence is heavy, choking. Until he whispers, hoarse and rough, “Does my petal want me to breed her?”

My breath catches.

The fair keeps spinning around us with music, laughter, the rise and fall of voices, but my world stops at the raw note in his voice.

I don’t give a straight answer. I can’t. But my hand slides over his forearm, fingers threading with his, squeezing once.

Noncommittal. Again.

And I see it…the quiet shattering in his eyes.

We sit like that for a while, me curled against him, him watching the crowd like they’re wolves circling. I try to distract him with small touches…stroking the back of his hand, brushing my lips against his neck, whispering nonsense about fried pickles and balloon animals.

He humors me, but I feel the storm brewing faster…harder inside him.

And it starts a tempest in my own heart.

By the time the fireworks start, I’ve had enough.

The sky explodes red and gold, smoke curling over the field, but it only makes the knot inside me pull tighter.

I thought I needed this. That he needed this.

I grab his hand. Urgent, almost frantic.

“You okay, petal? You’re shaking,” he growls in my ear.

“Let’s go home. Please, Bear. I was wrong. We don’t need this. We don’t need anyone but us.”

He turns his head, eyes fierce if a little bemused, and his voice comes out low and dark with heat. “That right, little flower? You finally get it?”

“Yes.” My heart hammers. “I want our mountain. Our cabin. Just you. Only you.”

His thumb drags across my knuckles, slow and deliberate. “Careful what you’re saying, petal.”

Another volley of fireworks pops overhead. My chest hurts. “You don’t like it here and I…I don’t like it if you don’t,” I blurt.

Something shifts in his eyes…something feral, then something soft.

His arm snakes around my waist, his body all heat and tension, locking me against him as we weave back through the crowd.

When I look at him his jaw works like he’s biting down on words he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

The truck waits at the edge of the field.

He hits a button and headlights cut across the gravel. In under a minute, I’m belted inside, breathing familiar leather and him.

He climbs in after, the cab feels small, sealed, private, and I’m a little shocked to realize I’m breathing easier for the first time in hours.

The engine rumbles to life and we pull away with a crunch of tires over dirt.

In the side mirror, the fair is still alive with spinning rides, bursting fireworks, and a thousand strangers.

I glance back one last time, but all I can think is how much I don’t need it. Because I’ve already found the only place I want to be.