Chapter 15
Greyson
What am I really? Just a rich boy who ran away to a mountain and built himself a fortress out of wood and solitude and silence, then panicked the second a real woman walked through the gate and made him feel alive again.
I stand there in the middle of the Lunchroom with a fucking audience and my face wet and my pride in pieces, staring at Clara like I’m seeing her for the first time.
Not the city slicker.
Not Trouble.
Just her.
Gorgeous and furious and hurt, her mouth set hard like she’s holding back words that would cut deeper than the water ever could.
And the worst part?
I deserve every ounce of it.
I open my mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to say her name, maybe to do anything other than stand here like an asshole.
But Thatcher’s voice cuts in from behind me, calm and low.
“Alright,” he says, not loud, but somehow it still carries.
The tone of a man who’s broken up bar fights and knows exactly when one is about to happen.
“That’s enough, Grey.”
I don’t even have to turn to know he’s moved closer. I feel him at my back like a wall.
Clara turns her head and her eyes flick to him, then back to me—sharp, suspicious, ready to bolt.
Thatcher steps into my line of sight, hands in his pockets, jaw set.
“Come on, Greyson,” he says, like he’s doing me a favor I don’t deserve. “Let’s go have a chat.”
I blink at him.
“I’m fine,” I mutter automatically, because I’m an idiot and that’s what idiots say when they’re bleeding emotionally in public.
Thatcher’s stare doesn’t waver.
“No, you’re not.”
Willow clears her throat from behind the counter.
“Go on,” she says, like she’s giving me permission to stop embarrassing myself. “Before I dump the coffee pot on your head too.”
Clara makes a sound—half laugh, half scoff—like she can’t believe this is her life.
My chest aches at that sound.
I don’t want to cause any more of a scene than I already have.
Clara doesn’t deserve that.
Not here. Not now. Not ever.
And—worse—I follow him because I’m a nosy sonovabitch. And I want answers.
I want to know what she’s been doing all week.
Where she’s been sleeping.
Who she’s been sleeping with.
If she’s been laughing with Willow.
If she’s already moved on, like the other night was just a storm story.
If she’s been thinking about me the way I’ve been thinking about her.
So I give Clara one last look—one I hope says I’m not done, I’m not leaving, I’m just trying not to ruin this any more than I already have.
Then I nod once and follow Thatcher out the side door.
Cold air hits my wet face like a slap.
Thatcher walks ahead of me toward the back of the building where the sawdust piles up and the noise from the mill is distant.
He doesn’t speak until we’re out of earshot.
Then he stops and turns.
His eyes sweep over me—my soaked beard, my clenched fists, my whole rigid posture—and he shakes his head slowly.
“You about done acting like a jackass?” he asks.
“I wasn’t—” I start.
Thatcher lifts one hand.
“Really? You wanna tell me what happened in there was anything but reaction and stupidity?.”
I shut my mouth.
He steps closer, voice quieter but sharper.
“I know you got your own issues, Grey. No one chooses to live on a mountain away from the rest of the world because they’re fine and fucking dandy,” he says.
I snort. He’s not wrong.
But I don’t want to talk about my fucking issues with him.
“It’s not my business, brother. But Willow likes Clara. They’re friends. And my wife hasn’t had much of that in her life.”
I understand now. His investment in this is his wife’s happiness. Not some out-of-place feelings he has for Clara, which makes me breathe easier.
Just knowing that sets some primal part of me at peace.
And I know I have no business feeding that feeling. I have no claim on Clara Belle.
But even thinking it feels like a lie.
“You’re the one who called me to pick her up, Grey,” Thatcher continues, oblivious to the war I’m having within myself.
“You were done with her. And if being married taught me anything, it’s being mindful of how women feel.
You made that woman feel like she didn’t matter.
Then you show up in here and start barking like you own her and the whole damn mountain—”
“Do you have a fucking point, Thatch? I was there, I know what I fucking said.”
“I guess I’m just asking, are you surprised she threw water at you?”
My jaw tightens.
Asshole.
He might be right, but he’s still a prick.
“She shouldn’t be here.”
Thatcher’s brows lift.
“That’s it? That’s your line? That’s what you’re going with?”
“She’s—” I drag a hand through my hair, frustration sparking.
“She’s got a whole life out there. A career.
A loyal fucking following. She’s a city girl, Thatch.
People like her, and she likes them. She brings attention,” I say the last part likes it a sin, and yes, I know how fucking stupid that makes me.
Thatcher watches me like he’s trying to decide whether to punch me or hug me.
“You know what she brings, Grey?” he asks finally. “She brings choices. She brings joy. Hell, she brings a fuckup hermit like you back to life. But you gotta grab your balls if you want to earn a spot in hers.”
I flinch like he hit the mark dead center.
Thatcher leans in, voice dropping.
“Truth is, whatever you’re running from, it’ll catch up with you eventually. And that’s got nothing to do with Clara.”
“Thatch, you don’t know—”
“I don’t, and that’s fine. But be honest. You didn’t kick that woman out to protect her from your world. You kicked her out because you’re scared she’ll see the real you and decide you’re not worth staying for.”
My throat tightens.
I hate that he can say it so plainly.
I hate that he’s right.
I look away, staring at the snow piled along the edge of the lot, the bright sun making everything look clean when nothing feels clean inside me.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I mutter.
Thatcher snorts. “Yeah. That’s part of the problem.”
I swallow. “So, where is she staying?”
Thatcher’s expression shifts—something like satisfaction, like he knew I’d ask that.
“She’s staying with Kelly,” he says.
My head snaps up. “Kelly?”
“My sister’s prick husband ran off,” he confirms. “And before you spiral again, no, Clara isn’t hanging around here to expose you. She’s been helping Kelly pack up Mike’s shit and listening to Willow talk her ear off.”
That shouldn’t make me feel anything.
It does.
Relief hits first—hot and sharp.
Then jealousy, ugly and irrational.
Then the sickest thing of all.
Hope.
Thatcher watches it play across my face like a man who’s seen too many stubborn fools do this dance.
“She’s been quiet,” he adds, slower. “But she’s hurt. Willow says she tries to act like she’s fine, but she flinches anytime your name comes up.”
My chest tightens like a fist closes around it.
I deserve that, too.
Thatcher jerks his chin back toward the Lunchroom.
“So. You gonna keep being a coward?”
I grind my teeth. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“What man has ever asked for someone to turn his life upside down?” Thatcher asks flatly. “Shit, Grey, nobody asks for the thing that changes them. But if you’re lucky, you get to stick around and say thanks.”
I stare at him, wet hair drying stiff in the cold.
“What do I do?” I ask, and the question tastes like weakness.
Thatcher’s mouth tilts.
Not quite a smile.
More like a warning.
“You go back in there,” he says, “and you apologize like a grown man.”
My stomach twists.
“And then?” I ask, because apology feels too small for what I did.
Thatcher’s gaze hardens. “Then you tell her the truth.”
I swallow. “The truth? Shit, I’m not sure—”
“The truth,” he interrupts, “is that you wanted her. And you got scared. And you tried to shove her out before she could leave you first.”
The words hit so close to home I can’t breathe for a second.
Thatcher steps closer, lowering his voice.
“You don’t get to decide where she belongs, Greyson. You only get to decide whether you’re brave enough to ask her to stay.”
My pulse pounds in my throat.
I look back toward the Lunchroom door, toward the warmth and the noise and the woman sitting in there with her hurt and her fire.
My palms sweat inside my pockets.
Thatcher claps a heavy hand on my shoulder—one firm squeeze.
“Go,” he says. “Before she really does decide you’re not worth the trouble.”
And for the first time in a week, I move—not to hide.
To fight for something I actually want.