Chapter 12
Clara
The strange woman beams at me like I’m not just standing in Greyson’s cabin having an internal meltdown.
“So,” she says, bright as sunshine. “How did you find this place? We still need a map and directions.”
She smiles.
I shrug and try to smile back.
Judging from her expression, I fail. Miserably.
Oh my God.
There it is. My chest cracks a little.
She steps forward, then gestures behind her with her thumb.
“So—” she pats the big man’s arm. “Um, Thatcher, wanna set down that box so we can get Clara out of here? Sound good, Clara? Got any bags or anything?”
Thatcher’s gaze flicks over me, assessing, then softens into something like understanding.
Like he already knows I’m mid-spiral.
I swallow hard.
“Um, yeah, I’m ready. No, I don’t have anything but this,” I manage, holding the bundle of clothes I wore last night.
My voice comes out weak and stupid.
Then, I look down.
Fuck.
I have no shoes.
“Oh, no worries. Grey mentioned your problem,” she says and hands me a pair of godawful rubber shoes.
“They’re yellow.”
“They’re Crocs,” she explains.
I guess she’s right.
Says so right there on the side along with a little crocodile icon.
“Um, thanks,” I murmur and slip them on—holy shit, they feel great.
“Nice, right?” Willow nods knowingly.
“Actually, yeah.” I shrug because they are super comfy.
But still, my heart squeezes because now I understand why he’s pushing me out the door in such a nonchalant way.
I was just a body in the dark.
Just something to scratch that irritating biological itch.
He wouldn’t have stayed to say goodbye. Not when he had to call them to help me.
If Willow here is his secret muse, then seeing this woman must stir old feelings.
It shouldn’t matter so much. I don’t know him. Not really.
What do I care if he used me?
I used him too. Didn’t I?
Shit.
Willow’s eyes narrow—just slightly—like she’s reading the story playing on my face.
“Hold on,” she says, lifting a hand. “I can see you writing a whole book in your head right now, and I’m pretty sure you’ve got it wrong.”
I blink. “What?”
She smiles like she’s dealt with overthinking women before.
Like she knows exactly how to interrupt the doom loop.
Thatcher sets a box on the counter with a solid thunk.
It smells like actual heaven—bacon, pastries, something sweet and buttery.
Willow nods toward it.
“We brought some food for Grey. He usually stops in once a week, but it’s been a minute.”
I stare at the box like it might save me from myself.
Willow keeps talking, cheerful and steady.
“I run a little breakfast/lunch stop at the sawmill on the other side of the mountain. It’s attached to the mill—feeds the guys, keeps them from eating nothing but gas station jerky.”
“That’s nice,” I say automatically, because my manners are on autopilot even when my heart is in pieces.
“It is,” she agrees, then steps closer and lowers her voice like we’re conspirators. “And you look like you need food and a conversation before you drive off thinking Greyson is a heartless old mountain goat.”
My eyes widen. “I didn’t—”
“You do,” she says kindly. “And it’s okay. You wouldn’t be the first—oh my God, I did not mean that how it sounded! You are absolutely the first woman we’ve ever seen here. Not that we would have reason to. Okay, I’m gonna shut up now..”
Thatcher clears his throat, glancing toward the hallway like he expects Greyson to appear any second and scowl them all into silence.
Willow tilts her head.
“So, um, come on,” she says, nodding toward the door.
“Let’s go. We’ll stop at the Lunchroom—that’s what we call it—and we’ll eat and chat.
You can tell me how you ended up on Greyson’s mountain in a thunderstorm—because I’m dying to hear that story—and I can tell you why he’s acting like an ass this morning. ”
My throat tightens again, but this time it isn’t pure hurt.
It’s curiosity.
And something else.
Hope, maybe. The cautious kind.
Because Willow doesn’t look like a woman who’s ever been the other woman.
She looks like a woman who knows exactly what she has with her man. And maybe she knows exactly why Greyson is behaving this way.
Also, she’s not threatened by me.
Which is not confusing as hell.
I glance down at Greyson’s flannel on my body. Inhale his scent. Feel my pulse stumble.
“I shouldn’t—” I start, because I know better than to linger where I’m not wanted.
Willow’s smile softens.
“You don’t have to stay,” she says gently. “But you’re here. And you’re shaken. And Greyson is, well, he’s got a lot of baggage, but I’m guessing it’s worth it to the right someone.”
Thatcher adds, deadpan, “He’s the grumpiest bastard on this mountain, and that’s saying something coming from me.”
Willow elbows him, but she’s smiling.
Then she looks back at me, eyes warm and direct.
“What do you say, Clara?” she asks. “Breakfast and the truth?”
Maybe it’s because I’m a writer and the mystery is clawing at me.
Maybe it’s because my pride wants answers.
Maybe it’s because my heart—stupid, bruised, hungry—needs to know if last night meant anything at all.
I swallow.
Then I nod.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Breakfast and a chat. Sounds good.”