Chapter 3 Willa
WILLA
I’m fresh from my shift at Creekside Diner, my perfume doing little to hide the scent of coffee and bacon still clinging to my clothes as I drive up Cherry Mountain.
The call from Calloway Logging came as a surprise during my lunch break—a welcome distraction from refreshing the auction page non-stop.
I wasn’t expecting to hear back so fast, and I definitely wasn’t expecting the boss to call and ask me to come for an interview the same day.
Flint Calloway.
I definitely shouldn’t have noticed how deep and sexy his voice sounded.
It’s been echoing through my mind ever since he hung up.
I’m still thinking about it now, as my phone guides me away from the road and down a dirt track into the trees.
Eventually, I reach a tiny gravel parking area and come to a stop.
The office is visible through the trees: a one-story building made of honey-colored logs. Sugar Creek curls behind it, glittering in the pale sunshine. It looks like an idyllic place to work, and I feel a flicker of hope in my chest as I straighten my bangs in the mirror.
I hope I get the job.
I grab my door handle, then pause, unable to stop myself from quickly checking the auction site. A familiar knot forms in my gut as the page loads, revealing the number under my profile.
$4,375
It’s been creeping up since this morning, but watching the price increase doesn’t bring me the relief I’d hoped. Instead, it fills me with visceral anxiety to think that real people are out there bidding on me, their eyes scanning my profile, fingers tapping out a number.
Fighting down my unease, I exit the tab and get out of the car, trying to refocus my attention on what I’m here to do.
I can’t control the bids on my virginity, but I can control how I perform in a job interview.
Heck, I’ve been to more than I can count.
I know the drill: sit straight, make eye contact, answer the questions clearly, and don’t fidget.
But nothing prepares me for the man on the other side of the door.
I hear him before I see him—the sound of someone standing up, the groan of wood. Then a growly voice calls out, “Come in.”
I do as I’m told, nerves buzzing as I push open the door and step inside the office.
Someone is waiting for me.
I freeze.
Holy crap.
The man standing behind the desk is a giant—at least six and a half feet tall. He’s broad and muscular, with wide shoulders and biceps that bulge beneath his green flannel shirt. His sleeves are rolled up, dark ink running up both forearms, and I suck in a breath, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
He’s stupidly handsome. Of course. Early forties at least, with striking gray eyes and a light brown beard threaded with auburn, accentuating his sharp jawline.
His brows are drawn down, mouth serious and unsmiling, but the grumpiness only makes him more attractive.
He looks like a walking fantasy, and I suddenly feel a lot more nervous than I did a second ago.
“Hi,” I stammer awkwardly. “I’m Willa. I’m here for the interview. Are you Flint Calloway?”
The man is silent for a beat too long. He stares at me, sizing me up, making my cheeks heat beneath his gaze.
“Yes,” he says eventually. “I’m Flint Calloway.”
Goosebumps erupt on my arms at the sound of his voice. It sounds even deeper than it did on the phone—a low rumble from his sternum that seems to fill the whole office.
“Nice to meet you.”
I approach the desk, forcing myself to remember where I am and why I’m here.
If I want this job, I need to act professional—not gawk at my potential new boss like a schoolgirl with a crush.
I reach out a hand across the desk, heart fluttering when I catch Flint’s scent, like pine and woodsmoke.
He takes my hand, his calloused palm engulfing mine, the contact sending a shiver up my whole arm.
I let go and take a seat. Flint mirrors me, his broad shoulders taking up most of the desk space as he sits. He doesn’t bother with small talk.
“Your application says you work at Creekside Diner.”
“Yes.”
“And Fireside Lodge.”
My fingers twist in my lap. “Night shifts.”
“And you want to add this on top?” Flint frowns.
“I can handle it.”
He doesn’t argue. Instead, he talks me through the role: admin, crew schedules, supplier orders, invoicing sawmills.
I concentrate, nodding along as I cast a glance at the office.
It’s organized chaos: papers stacked in neat piles, ring binders everywhere, a whiteboard covered with indecipherable notes, and a filing cabinet that looks like it’s from the seventies.
I’m willing to bet that half the stuff in here should be on a spreadsheet instead of in a pile on the desk.
“You ever worked a job like this before?” Flint asks once he’s done explaining.
“Not officially, but I’m very organized. I’m confident I can sort all this out.”
He surveys me for a moment. “Good.”
I ask about the hours, relieved to hear the shifts are pretty flexible. Then the talk turns to salary. I’ve never had the luxury of being coy about money, and when Flint names a significantly higher number than what was listed in the job posting, my heart leaps.
“That’s the starting salary,” he says. “You manage to drag this office into the twenty-first century and it’ll go up.”
“Perfect.” I try to hide my eagerness. Stay calm. “I can do that.”
A pause. Then Flint says, “When can you start?”
“Tomorrow.”
He nods. “Tomorrow.”
One word. Final.
The certainty in his voice makes me feel steadier than I have in weeks.
Like I’ve finally found a patch of solid ground under my feet.
This job won’t solve all my problems, but it will definitely help in the short-term.
The starting salary is twice as high as what I earned at the cleaning company, and the extra income can go toward my debts.
With time, it could make a dent—even just a modest one.
“Thank you,” I tell Flint as we both stand up. “I promise you won’t regret it.”
He grunts in response, following me to the door. He reaches past me to open it, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of how close he’s standing, hulking over me like a mountain. My stomach flip-flops as I brush past him, catching his woodsy scent again as I step out of the office.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Calloway.”
He scowls at me from the doorway. “That’s Flint to you.”
“Sorry…” I swallow hard, those steely gray eyes rooting me to the spot as I add, “Bye, Flint.”
“Bye, Willa.”
That voice makes my name sound sinful, and I shiver as I turn away, heading back toward the parking area.
Dirt turns to gravel, crunching beneath my shoes, my whole body bubbling with tension.
I swear I can feel Flint’s eyes burning into my back, all the way to my car.
When I get in the driver’s seat, I chance a glance back toward the log building.
Flint is gone.
With a sigh, I turn the key and start my car, trying to ignore the pounding in my chest.
Stop it, I think to myself.
He’s your new boss. Nothing more.
But before I can shift into reverse, I see the door to the office open again.
Flint comes out, axe swinging in his hand as he strides toward the tree line.
He moves through the forest with the ease of a man who spends most of his time outdoors, like he belongs out here, wild and untamed.
Thick muscles flex beneath his shirt as he walks, and the pale sunlight catches his beard, making the auburn streaks burn with life.
He reaches a thicket of fir trees, about to disappear from view.
Then he glances back. There’s no time to look away.
Our eyes meet and Flint stops walking. Time seems to freeze as we stare at each other.
A second passes…maybe a minute…maybe an hour.
Then the ping of a notification drags me back to reality with a jolt.
I look away from Flint and down at my phone to see a notification from First Encounters.
Congratulations! Your auction has surpassed $5,000!
I stare at it for a moment.
Good, I think.
This is good. This was the plan.
Except something has shifted in the last twenty minutes.
Something I can’t explain. Even as I look down at the number, I’m struggling to feel the same certainty I felt last night when I hit submit and put my virginity up for sale.
I find myself thinking about my new job instead—about the log office in the trees and the salary that is more than I expected.
About the lumberjack who just took a chance on me.
Maybe I should take it down…
I could delete the listing right now. Pretend I never signed up for First Encounters.
I could keep grinding. Leave my apartment when the lease is up.
Couch surf or sleep in my car to save on rent.
It would be rough. Years of working non-stop, sleeping for an hour or two when I get the chance. But I could try.
I reach for my phone, thumbs hovering over the screen. I open up First Encounters.
Then I pause.
I think about the debt collector who calls every Tuesday.
The messages. The way his tone gets more menacing every time I answer.
I think about the $80,000, the interest rising faster than I can pay, like trying to empty Sugar Creek with a teaspoon.
I think about how grinding hasn’t been enough, has never been enough, and won’t magically become enough anytime soon, no matter how many hours a day I work myself into the ground.
I set my phone back down with a heavy heart. Then I put my car in reverse—not looking to see if Flint is still watching me—before I drive out of the forest without a backward glance.