Chapter 3
THATCHER
Mud season.
Aptly fucking named, if you ask me.
I trudge through four inches of thick, sucking sludge that clings to my boots like it’s got a personal vendetta.
Every afternoon we see some of the snow melting, but instead of freedom, we get this—brown hell that smells like wet earth and old pine.
And every night, the shit freezes over again just because it can.
I flip open my battered notebook, thumbing through a handwritten list that runs the gamut from belts and saw blades to industrial twine and—because men are animals—toilet paper, flushable wipes, antibacterial soap, and hand sanitizer.
Winter was rough this year.
Busy as fuck.
And that’s exactly how I like it.
Logging doesn’t slow down just because it’s cold.
If anything, frozen ground makes hauling easier.
Trees don’t care about the temperature, and neither do we.
But once winter lets go, this is what’s left behind—prep season.
Maintenance. Repairs. Mud.
“Yo, boss,” Tim calls out, catching up to me with long strides. He’s got sawdust in his beard and two pairs of gloves layered on his hands.
“We gotta talk gloves. These bargain ones are tearing through too damn fast.”
He holds up his hands for emphasis, fingers poking through frayed fabric.
I grimace and jot it down.
“Yeah. That’s on the supplier. I’ll make sure he gets us the heavy-duty ones.”
“Good,” he says. “My wife’s already pissed I keep bringing home gloves that look like they lost a bar fight.”
I snort. “Tell her I said sorry.”
“She already hates you for cheating me at the poker game last month.”
“You lost fair and square,” I remind him.
We have a standing poker game once every month. Typically, we play for beer, but old Tim’s wife is one helluva baker, so I traded beer for three of her homemade apple crumb pies.
I sigh and shake the pen. Fucking ink is frozen on me.
“That about does it,” I grunt.
Kelly would have my ass for using pen and paper instead of the tablet she bought me, but she’s not the one slogging through mud in insulated gloves with frozen fingers.
Tech is great until it stops working—or you drop it in a thick puddle of sludge.
I glance around the yard.
Logs are stacked, and tarped.
The mill humming steady. Steam rises where warm wood meets cold air.
We’re tucked high on Bearpaw Ridge—mountains, not postcard Maine.
Temperatures hit mid-thirties at noon if we’re lucky.
We’re usually not.
Don’t matter anyway, because with every nightfall, the temps drop in half.
And the windchill? That sonovabitch cuts like a blade.
“This ain’t spring,” I mutter.
Nathan jogs up, barely old enough to shave but already built like a workhorse.
“You guys heading to lunch?”
“Yeah,” Tim says. “Boss says we’re allowed.”
I roll my eyes.
“Go eat before you pass out. I gotta check the office.”
They head off, boots squelching, voices fading as they argue about who owes who five bucks from last night’s basketball game bet.
I turn back toward the office, notebook tucked under my arm.
Inside the back door, I stomp mud from my boots, hang my coat, peel off my gloves—and then I stop.
Because even with the mill roaring, forklifts beeping, first shift filing past toward the lunchroom and second shift still feeding lumber through the saws—I hear it.
Voices.
Kelly’s is unmistakable.
Bright. Annoyingly efficient. Talking too fast.
But the other one? It’s different.
Quieter. Husky. Low.
It slides under my skin before my brain even catches up.
I freeze, instincts flaring sharp and sudden. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just listen.
“Do you know anything about computers?” Kelly asks.
“Computers?” the stranger replies. “Oh—yes. My last job required me to work with them.”
Her voice is calm, polite, and something else.
Like warm skin beneath wool.
It curls into me, sinks deep, and my body reacts before I can tell it not to.
“Where was that?” Kelly presses.
“Oh. Um. A realtor’s office. Down in Fort Lauderdale.”
“Florida?” Kelly sounds stunned. “And you gave that up to come here?”
There’s a pause.
A hesitation.
“Oh, I like the snow. Um, well,” the woman says softly, “can I ask—do you know if there’s a place nearby where I could rent a room?”
Kelly inhales sharply. I know that sound.
It’s the idea forming sound.
The one that gets us into trouble.
“A room?” she says. “Oh! I didn’t even think of that! We’ve got a small cabin here. Used to be for a watchman before the security system upgrade. That could work. Let me grab the keys.”
I frown.
That cabin hasn’t been used in years.
I check it now and then, but “livable” is generous.
“Really?” the woman says, relief clear in her tone. “That would be amazing.”
“What will you charge for rent?” she asks a moment later.
Kelly laughs. “Consider it part of your pay.”
I close my eyes.
Jesus Christ.
That’s it.
That’s my line.
Sexy voice or not, I am not letting some stranger live on mill property.
I push off the wall, already rehearsing the speech in my head.
When I round the corner—I stop dead.
Like a deer in fucking headlights.
She’s standing there like she’s bracing herself for impact.
Hands folded in front of her, fingers twisting together just enough to give her away.
Like she doesn’t quite know what to do with them.
Like she’s trying not to take up too much space in a room that already feels too big.
Soft brown curls brush her shoulders, catching the light from the grimy window behind her.
They look touchable.
Not styled. Not careful. Just there. Natural.
Her eyes lift to mine.
Big. Brown. Wide with surprise.
And fuck—there’s something about the way she looks at me that hits sideways.
Not coy. Not bold. Just open. Startled.
Like she didn’t expect me. Or maybe she just didn’t expect someone to stare at her like I am.
Unapologetically so.
Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, a soft pink that stands out against skin that looks warm despite the chill.
And her lips—Christ—naturally pink, slightly parted like she’s about to speak and forgot how words work.
I forget how to breathe.
She’s not thin.
She’s not fragile.
She’s real.
Curved in a way that makes my chest tighten without warning.
Solid in a way that feels grounding and dangerous all at once.
Rounded in a way my hands already understand instinctively—like they’d know exactly where to go, how to fit.
The thought blindsides me.
I don’t think about women like that anymore.
Haven’t in years.
I keep things simple. Contained.
My life is wood and steel and schedules and men who need direction.
Not this.
Not her.
Still, I want to test the theory before I can stop myself.
Want to know how she’d feel under my palms.
If the softness I see is real.
If she’d fill my hands the way my body suddenly insists she would.
She licks her bottom lip—nervous, quick—and the motion sends a jolt straight to my dick.
Heat flares low and fast. Sharp. Immediate.
Unwanted.
Unexpected.
Violent in its intensity.
It’s been years since my body reacted like this—since attraction hit me this hard, this suddenly.
No warm-up.
No logic.
Just instinct roaring to life like it’s been waiting.
The mill fades away.
The saws.
The shouts.
The machinery that’s been my whole world.
All of it narrows down to her and the heavy thud of my heartbeat in my ears.
She looks at me like I’m the dangerous one.
And for the first time in a long damn while—I feel like she might be right.
“Don’t just stand there, Thatcher,” Kelly says, amusement threaded through her voice. “Come meet our new employee.”
I drag my gaze away from her with effort. Actual effort.
“H-hello,” the stranger says softly.
Her voice is quieter than Kelly’s.
Lower, steadier than she probably feels.
“You are?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.
“I-I’m Willow.”
The name settles into me like it belongs there.
Willow.
Like the tree.
Flexible. Resilient. Strong enough to bend without breaking.
Yeah.
She’s Willow.
And that’s my new favorite name.