Chapter 10
WILLOW
Baby Girl.
He called me that.
Didn’t he?
I lie on my side in the narrow bed, staring at the shadowed wall of the cabin, replaying the moment over and over like I’m trying to wear a groove into it.
His voice. Low. Rough. Certain.
The way it wrapped around the words like they belonged there.
Like I belonged there.
I tell myself I’m imagining it.
That he didn’t mean anything by it.
That men like Thatcher McCrae probably talk like that without realizing the effect.
That doesn’t help.
The wind rattles faintly against the window, and the heater hums steadily now, the cabin warm enough that I’ve kicked my blankets halfway down.
My body is tired—good tired, the kind that comes from working all day and doing well at it—but my mind refuses to follow suit.
Yeah, I was late getting back, but there was traffic because of an accident caused by the inclement weather.
And I, admittedly, drive on the slower side. Especially at night. And when I’m unused to the roads.
I replay the evening.
Him, unloading the truck by himself despite my protests.
Boxes stacked neatly, movements efficient and strong, like effort is something his body was built for.
Me, putting everything away while he hovered nearby, arms crossed, watching.
“What is all this?” he asked, eyeing the produce.
I hadn’t planned to explain myself. It just spilled out.
“Well, first, I worked everything within the budget and bought pretty much everything on the list,” I told him, suddenly nervous.
“But some of the older guys were talking about cholesterol and blood pressure. So I called Kelly and asked if it was okay to make some changes to the menu, and she agreed. I hope that’s alright. ”
I remember bracing myself. Waiting for correction.
For irritation.
Instead, he studied me for a long moment, unreadable.
“That’s fine. Better than, actually,” he said finally. “Never would have considered it myself.”
“Oh, um—”
“Willow, that’s not a criticism. It’s quite the opposite.”
Oh.
I nodded my thanks.
Disbelief flooded my system.
Thatcher reacted with no anger. No reprimand.
Just acceptance.
When we finished, he walked me back to the truck like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Told me to use it while I was here.
“Just bring it to the office in the morning,” he said. “Leave the keys on the hook. Then drive it back here at night.”
“Oh—but I have a car,” I reminded him.
“Your car ain’t worth salt in this weather,” he replied, not unkindly. “If the slick doesn’t get you, the mud will. Just drive the company truck while you’re living on my mountain.”
My mountain.
The words echo now in the quiet.
Is it really his?
Kelly mentioned they both share ownership of the mill, but she also said Thatcher’s portion is greater since he runs it.
And she might have mentioned her brother has an affinity for the land. That his property stretches well beyond the lumberyard.
I don’t know how far or how wide, or how a person can own something as massive and immovable as a mountain—but when he says it, it makes sense.
Thatcher McCrae belongs here.
In denim and flannel.
With his scowls and growls.
Standing solid against weather and time like he was carved out of the place itself.
Like a sexy, angry mountain god.
Not some polished myth. Not distant or aloof.
More like a dark Thor. Or an unmaimed Hephaestus—powerful, controlled, simmering beneath the surface.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
This is ridiculous.
He’s my boss.
I’m barely settled.
I’m still half-expecting the other shoe to drop—to be told I’m fired, that I don’t really belong here, that I should move on before I get too comfortable.
And yet—I’m proud of myself.
I did well today.
I earned my place.
I didn’t freeze or fail or fall apart.
That matters more than it should.
This life is nothing like the realtor’s office in Florida—the constant hum of air-conditioning, the polished desks, the clothes chosen to look harmless and pleasing.
Back when I believed that if I worked hard enough and smiled at the right moments, I’d be safe.
Back before Dan’s jealousy crept in and turned everything sour.
Before his anger made me doubt my instincts, my competence, the parts of myself that used to feel solid and sure.
I lost pieces of myself there.
Quietly. Gradually.
Until I barely noticed they were gone. That I was gone.
Here, everything is stripped down to the basics.
Cold that bites.
Mud that clings to my shoes and my jeans and refuses to be ignored.
Work that leaves my hands tired but my mind clear.
And I can handle that.
What I can’t afford is letting myself linger on my boss’s voice—low and steady—when he said baby girl.
The way it wrapped around the words like he meant them.
Or the way his hand moved with quiet certainty when he touched my back, urging me inside.
Not rough. Not careless.
Just sure.
Like he expected me to listen.
Like he knew I would.
Or the look he gives me sometimes.
That one is the most dangerous of all.
Like he sees past the careful version of me—the polite smiles, the controlled breaths, the woman who learned how to make herself smaller—and straight into the one underneath.
The one I buried when it wasn’t safe to be her anymore.
Maybe I’m imagining that part.
But I don’t think so.
That kind of attention isn’t harmless.
It’s heavy.
It asks questions I’m not ready to answer.
Especially from a man whose presence feels larger than life—rooted and unmovable, like the mountain itself.
Thatcher McCrae doesn’t just exist here.
He belongs.
And some quiet, unsettling part of me is starting to believe I came here for a reason.
Not just to hide.
Not just to survive.
But to stand somewhere solid again. To remember what it feels like to be seen without being diminished.
That terrifies me.
So yes—I might daydream about him.
Okay, I might even dream-dream about him.
About his scowl.
His voice.
His delicious body.
The heat that coils low in my belly when he’s too close.
But that’s only because I can’t have him.
That makes it safe.
Right?
It’s not like he wants me. Not really.
Men like him don’t look twice at women like me.
And I refuse—refuse—to lose myself to anyone ever again.
Oh my God, just stop thinking about the man, Willow, and go to sleep.
I resettle my blanket over me and lie back down with a long exhale.
Tomorrow I’ll get to the lunchroom half an hour earlier.
I already have a plan for soup.
Something hearty. Something warm.
Fresh vegetables. Less salt.
Something that feels like care.
Tim and Arthur were two of the men discussing their health at lunch the other day which was when I got the notion in my head to work on better meals.
Thinking about that makes me think of the state of my own cupboard, and it is pretty damn bad.
But I get to eat lunch with everyone.
Plus, I managed to buy myself a loaf of wheat bread and a jar of peanut butter today.
It feels almost indulgent, even though it’s about as basic as it gets.
And if I snag one apple from the bag I bought for the lunchroom, I’m sure that’s fine.
I can always tell Kelly when we talk tomorrow.
Maybe I’ll drop a dollar into petty cash to balance it out.
The thought makes me smile faintly—like I’m relearning how to exist without asking permission for every small comfort.
My mind drifts back to Thatcher.
The look on his face when I explained what the produce was for.
Not annoyed.
Just surprised.
Like the idea that someone might care enough to think about the men he works beside every day hadn’t occurred to him in quite that way.
I wonder if he’ll like it.
My cooking.
I’m no chef.
I don’t pretend to be.
But I know my way around a kitchen.
I learned the basics standing on a chair beside my grandmother when I was little, watching her hands move with instinct and love.
She cooked to feed people, not impress them. To make sure no one left her table hungry.
Thinking of her tugs at my heart, sharp and sudden, and I quickly redirect my thoughts.
Old life. Old pain.
I don’t have room for that tonight.
Still, will he like it?
The Greek chicken orzo soup I’ve already planned out in my head—lemony and warm, with carrots and celery chopped just right.
The chicken salad I’ll make from the leftovers, bound with just enough dressing to hold it together without drowning it.
And the apple cobbler for dessert, sweet but not cloying, something that tastes like home even if you don’t know why.
It’s silly to care this much.
But I do.
Because feeding people feels like the one thing I know how to do without second-guessing myself.
Because it feels like offering something real.
I turn onto my other side, pulling the blanket closer, and finally let my eyes close.
It’s with Thatcher McCrae’s curious scowl and gravel-rough voice lodged firmly in my thoughts that I drift off to sleep—which is probably why I don’t hear my phone buzz softly on the nightstand, alerting me to a new message.