Chapter 8
WILLOW
After that first afternoon—where my gruff, terrifyingly handsome boss showed me the ropes—I settle into the rhythm faster than I expect.
I learn how to answer the phones without flinching every time they ring.
How to take messages the way he likes them, neat and detailed.
I figured out the invoicing system, the batches that need to be run daily versus weekly, and the very specific way the guys prefer their lunches.
Soup hot.
Sandwiches plentiful.
Coffee always on.
The kitchen stock is low now, and Kelly’s handwritten list tells me it’s time to make a run to the big depot store in the next town over.
It’s a solid hour drive, and I stare at the list wondering how I’m going to fit all of it into the back of my little car without snapping an axle.
I’m waiting for him to come in.
Thatcher only stops by the office in the morning, then spends the rest of his day outside in the mill.
Every time the back door opens, my pulse jumps—ridiculous, really—but I can’t help it.
Today the temperature creeps up to thirty-five degrees, and for the first time since I arrived, I can actually feel my toes.
I’ve learned fast that frozen ground turns to mud by afternoon, and my thin canvas sneakers are one bad wash away from disintegrating completely.
I’ll need boots.
But I don’t get paid for another two weeks.
And even then, I’ll have to ask my boss if he can cash my check for me.
That thought makes my stomach twist.
At least I have a place to stay, though.
And one solid meal a day isn’t bad either.
The cabin is fine. Really.
I clean it using supplies I find under the sink—laundry detergent, disinfectant wipes, even a decent mop.
The hot plate works, and I use the kettle heat water for the instant soup cups I have for dinner almost every night. I rotate those with that shelf stable cheese spray and crackers or oatmeal packets.
It’s fine. Whatever. I can afford to lose a pound or ten.
Anyway, I’m surprised on my first afternoon when two of the guys come in—one from each crew—and drop keys onto my desk.
“Used the cabin key to wash the rags,” Mack explains, scratching his beard. “Boss says you’re handling it now.”
The other man nods once and leaves without a word.
“Yep. Thanks,” I say, releasing a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I hadn’t even known there were other keys floating around.
I hung them on hooks just inside the cabin so when I move on—and God, I hate thinking about that—whoever needs them can grab them easily.
As far as I know, Thatcher—Mr. McCrae—is the only one with a personal copy.
Which makes sense.
He’s the boss.
It’s day three now and I feel like I’m getting the hang of it.
The back door opens, heavy and unmistakable.
He’s back.
I wait a beat. Two. Three.
Then square my shoulders and walk toward his office, heart thudding like I’m about to do something brave instead of ask a question.
“Excuse me, Mr. McCrae?” I knock lightly.
“Come in, Willow.”
I do.
And stop dead.
Holy. Shit.
He’s standing there.
Shirtless.
My brain stutters.
Fully stalls out.
There’s a damp pile of flannel and thermal shirts on the floor, and water beads on his skin, tracking down his chest and stomach in slow, merciless lines.
“You’re soaked!” I blurt, cheeks burning instantly.
“Leaky pipe,” he says calmly. “Got caught in it. Now—what can I help you with?”
I try very hard to look at his face.
“Oh—um—yeah.” I lift my clipboard like it might save me. “It says I’m supposed to restock the lunchroom?”
I let it hang as a question because suddenly words feel… risky. Like if I say the wrong thing, my brain might short-circuit entirely.
He nods.
“Yeah. Gotta make a Walmart run.”
“Walmart?”
He quirks a brow. “Supercenter.”
“Oh.” I nod quickly. That tracks.
Florida has those everywhere. Jersey—not so much.
“I’ll grab the company card,” he says, already reaching for his wallet. “Oh—and can you drive stick?”
“I can manage a stick shift,” I say, a little too fast, excited at the prospect of not driving my own crappy car.
His brow lifts. “Really?”
“Yeah. A cousin taught me when I was younger.”
I shrug, suddenly shy—but the faint smile that tugs at his mouth feels like a gold star I didn’t know I wanted.
“Good,” he says. “I want you to take one of the trucks.”
I nod.
And immediately regret having eyes.
Because as he turns, muscles roll beneath his skin with effortless power—broad shoulders, strong arms, his abdomen tightening as he moves.
There’s a light dusting of dark hair on his chest that disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans, and my thoughts follow it somewhere they absolutely should not.
I swallow hard and remind myself to breathe.
This is work.
He’s my boss.
Get it together, Willow.
Easier said than done.
Everything about him screams capable in a way that makes me feel both safe and undone.
He hands me the credit card and keys.
His dark eyes meet mine, steady and intent.
“Anything else you need?” he asks, voice dropping lower.
My brain supplies an answer my mouth absolutely should not.
Yes. You.
Distance. Control.
“Uh—nope! I’m good!” I chirp far too brightly.
And then I flee.
I’m halfway down the hall when I hear it.
His chuckle.
Low. Warm. Amused.
I press a hand to my chest, heart racing, and I scold myself.
This is silly.
I can’t keep daydreaming about my boss, for Pete’s sake!
I’m doing okay on my own.
I got away from Dan. I’m beyond his reach.
And I’m surviving.
More than that.
I’m gonna figure out my life.
Build something new.
Something of my own.
I just have to not think about my boss.
Sure.
No problem at all.