Strong & Savage (Cherry Mountain Lumberjacks #4)

Chapter 1 Willa

WILLA

The text comes through on my lunch break.

I’m sitting on a bench outside the diner, watching the sluggish flow of Sugar Creek as I eat a breakfast burrito Reggie made for me.

It’s a perk of working at Creekside—free food.

I try to savor every bite, listening to the quiet trickle of water, making the most of the calm while it lasts.

Then my phone buzzes in my apron pocket.

Hi Willa! Just a quick message to let you know that we’re reducing our roster at Sparkle Clean Co. and unfortunately we won’t be needing your services going forward. Your final pay will be processed by Friday. Thanks so much for everything! Have a great day :)

I read the text three times, my stomach twisting.

Have a great day.

Smiley face.

I set my phone face down on the bench beside me.

As I look back down at the creek, my vision blurs, and a scream lodges in my throat, desperate to escape.

But I don’t make a sound. Don’t move. Then, slowly, I pick up my breakfast burrito and take another bite.

I’m not the kind of person who stops eating just because something bad has happened.

Heck, if I were, I’d never eat anything at all.

I polish off the last of my food, even though it feels like cement in my mouth. Then I toss the wrapper in the trash, stand up from the bench, and head back inside the diner.

Josie is behind the counter, refilling the coffee pot. She glances at me as I join her, and something in my expression must give me away because she immediately asks, “Are you okay, Willa?”

“Yep.” I smile at her. “All good.”

She looks at me for a beat too long. My work bestie always knows when something’s up, and I hate that she has to worry about me all the time. She just started dating one of our regulars—a lumberjack called Brewer—and I feel like a dark cloud over her happiness.

“Are you sure?” she asks, brow crumpled in concern.

“I’m sure. Everything’s fine.”

Josie doesn’t look convinced, but before she can press the subject, Reggie calls to her from the back with an order for Table 4. She disappears into the kitchen and I let my smile drop for a second, turning my back to the counter so the customers can’t see me.

Just get through today, I tell myself.

That’s all you need to do.

I take several deep breaths. Then I turn around with a bright smile fixed in place and start serving coffee.

It’s just after two when my shift ends. The drive home is only three minutes, but it feels longer as I wind through the streets of Cherry Hollow toward my apartment.

I live on the second floor of a building on Blue Elk Lane—a shoebox studio that smells vaguely of mildew and other people’s cooking.

It doesn’t feel like home, but it’s all I can afford.

I climb the steep staircase to my floor and shoulder open the front door, heading straight for the bathroom.

Inside, I splash cold water on my face, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead.

I look at myself in the mirror, wincing at the deep bags beneath my eyes, the dull pallor of my skin.

I look like crap, but that’s the least of my problems right now.

I’m down to two jobs.

A third of my income just vanished with a smiley face emoji.

I do the math automatically. My brain is always running numbers, and it doesn’t take me long to confirm what I already knew deep down.

Two jobs isn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough before Mom died, and it’s definitely not enough now. Not for rent. Not for food. Not for the calls that come every Tuesday from the debt collectors.

It’s never enough.

I grip the sink, eyes burning. But I don’t cry.

Falling apart is a luxury I can’t afford right now, so I turn off the faucet and leave the bathroom, sitting on the edge of my bed.

The apartment is quiet around me. Just the hum of the refrigerator and a steady drip from the shower the landlord won’t fix.

I’ve been living alone since Mom died, but I’m still not used to the silence.

She’s been gone three months.

Some days it feels like three minutes; other days, more like three years. Lung cancer took her fast. The doctor used the word “aggressive,” and she was gone less than a month after he said it—barely enough time to understand what was happening. Barely enough time to say goodbye.

The calls started about two weeks after the funeral. When I answered the first one, I thought it was a mistake.

It wasn’t.

Mom had been taking out loans and credit cards in my name for years. I don’t know when it started—all I know is I woke up one day owing $80,000 to companies I’d never heard of, and there was nothing I could do about it. The number just keeps going up, bloated with interest and late payment fees.

I should probably feel angrier than I am. Heck, it hits me sometimes: an all-consuming burst of rage that sets my skin on fire. But it never lasts long. I don’t have time to be angry. I don’t have the mental energy for it. All I feel is grief.

My mom was a complicated woman. Flawed. Growing up, she dragged me from apartment to apartment, city to city, desperate to follow whatever man she was dating at the time.

Her relationships were all the same: burning hot and fast, leaving nothing but ash.

Every new man was “the one” until he wasn’t, and I learned early not to bother unpacking, waiting for the inevitable night when Mom would shake me awake and say, “Come on, Willa. We’re out of here, honey.

” Then I’d grab my tiny bag of belongings and dutifully follow her to another guy’s apartment, waiting for the cycle to repeat.

She wasn’t a good mother. I can see that now.

She was a broken woman—desperate for someone to fill the void inside her.

But there were still these moments…fleeting moments between boyfriends…

when I would suddenly become my mom’s whole world.

Her best friend. She’d swear she was done with men, promising me she was going to do better.

And for a few glorious days, she’d really mean it.

We’d dance in the kitchen to Shania Twain, Mom swinging me around and singing at the top of her lungs.

We’d stay up late watching trash TV, snorting at the stupid parts, setting each other off until we couldn’t breathe from laughing.

Then she’d meet another guy, and it would all end as fast as it began.

But I loved her.

I still love her.

And now I’m all alone with the mess she left behind.

With a heavy sigh, I grab my phone from my pocket and open my contacts, finger hovering over Everly’s name.

My best friend lives in Chicago, where she moved for college four years ago.

She’s the only person in the world I want to call right now, but I can’t make myself do it.

Everly has listened to enough of my problems lately—she doesn’t need my name popping up on her screen with even more bad news.

I close my contacts and reach for my laptop instead, opening the job listings.

My night shift at Fireside Lodge starts in less than six hours, and I want to crash for at least five of them, so I don’t have time to do more than browse.

I scan through the listings until one catches my eye, posted today, short and to the point.

Admin Assistant at Calloway Logging.

Competitive salary, immediate start.

Must be organized and comfortable working in a rural setting.

The hours look flexible enough to fit around my other shifts. I don’t know anything about logging, but I know how to work hard and learn fast, and admin assistant sounds like something I can handle. I send off a quick application and close the laptop, curling up beneath my covers.

I need to sleep before my hotel shift. I know that. But my brain won’t stop running numbers and coming up short. The silence of the apartment is pressing in on all sides, and eventually I reach for my phone and open the browser app.

The tab is already open. I’ve been opening and closing it for weeks like a light switch flicking on and off.

First Encounters

Verified. Exclusive. Discreet.

It looks like any other dating site, except each profile has a price.

I’ve done my research, seen the numbers other girls have made from selling their virginity, and right now, it feels like my only way out.

I’ve been trying to convince myself it’s no big deal. One night with a stranger, that’s all.

Heck, it’s not like there’s anyone special waiting for me.

I’ve never dated—never had the time or the stability for it. Prince Charming isn’t coming to rescue me, and I’ve made my peace with that.

My throat tightens as I click the link to open the application form.

I’ve opened it before — stared at the blank page until my eyes crossed.

Now, I fill it in. I already took photos last week.

Just in case, I’d told myself. They’re not revealing — just me forcing a smile in the bathroom mirror, wearing makeup and the only dress I own.

My hands tremble a little as I fill in the description, but I don’t let myself read it back.

Then I hit submit before I can second-guess myself.

Done.

I close the browser and set my phone face down on the nightstand.

For a moment I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, the dark patches of mold collecting in the corners. Somewhere out there, a form with my name on it is being processed. My photo. My description. Ready to be shown to strangers who will decide if I’m worth bidding on.

I wait for the panic to hit, but it doesn’t. I’m too tired for panic. Instead, a hollow kind of resignation settles in my gut as I set my alarm for an hour from now. Then I curl up under the covers and squeeze my eyes shut, wondering how the heck my life has come to this.