Chapter 11
THATCHER
She’s distant this morning.
Not in the obvious way—she’s doing her job, answering phones, moving through the office with quiet efficiency—but her eyes aren’t fully here.
Like her thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
Somewhere heavy.
I notice because I always notice.
I tell myself it’s my fault.
Maybe I overstepped last night.
Bossing her around.
Putting my hand on her back.
Calling her Baby Girl like it slipped out without permission.
Maybe I pushed too far.
Or maybe she’s just skittish.
Either way, that’s fine.
I can work with skittish.
Skittish means careful. It means alert.
It means she’s learned the hard way that not every man deserves access to her space, her trust, her body.
And I don’t blame her for that—not for a damn second.
If anything, it makes me want to prove I’m different.
The last few days have made one thing painfully clear, though—whatever this started as?
It’s no longer a crush.
I’m not just some boss noticing his employee.
I’m not indulging in harmless curiosity or passing attraction.
This thing has teeth.
My interest in Willow is turning into something sharper. Heavier. Something that settles deep in my chest and refuses to be ignored.
Obsession is often viewed as an ugly word, but it fits.
I want her more with every passing hour.
Not just her body—though Christ, that’s a problem all on its own—but her.
The woman behind the careful smiles and polite distance.
The way she listens like every word matters.
The way she moves through the sawmill quietly but competently, like she doesn’t want to take up too much space even when she’s earned every inch of it.
There’s a sadness in her she never names.
She carries it like a bruise beneath the skin—faded at the edges, but still tender if you press too hard.
I see it in the way her eyes go distant sometimes. In how she flinches at raised voices, even when they’re not meant for her.
She looks sweet. Soft. Breakable.
Curvy in a way that makes my hands itch to learn her shape, to memorize it so thoroughly I’d recognize it blind.
But she’s not fragile.
There’s strength in her, buried deep. Survival.
A kind of quiet endurance that tells me she’s been bent without breaking.
And that haunted look in her eyes?
I don’t like it.
Not because it makes her less beautiful—if anything, it makes her more real—but because it tells me someone else put it there.
And I don’t know who did that to her yet.
But I already know one thing for damn sure—whoever it was?
They don’t get to touch her again.
They will never touch her here. Never again.
Last night, after she went inside her cabin, I stayed in my truck longer than necessary.
Longer than was reasonable.
Watching the faint movement of shadows behind the curtains as she undressed, moved around, prepared for sleep.
You can’t see through the curtains.
But silhouettes tell stories if you know how to read them.
And I have a damn good imagination.
I hated leaving her there alone.
Hated it enough that I checked the security feed twice before heading back to my own place.
The cameras run through a private cloud—mine alone unless something triggers the alarm.
In the years since we installed the system, it’s gone off twice.
Once because of Kelly. She forgot the code.
Willow has her own now.
Every morning, she enters it at the keypad by the lunchroom door.
That’s always her first stop. Coffee on. Soup started. Lunch prepped.
Then she heads to the office and handles the administrative work like she’s been doing it her whole life.
Whatever you call the role—secretary, admin, manager-in-training—she’s damn good at it.
And if her husky voice answering the phone doesn’t distract the hell out of me, then it’s just being near her and not being able to touch her.
Her body? Christ.
I haven’t seen all of it. Haven’t touched it yet.
But I think I’m addicted to it.
Today she’s wearing black leggings and a long-sleeve shirt that is absolutely not meant to be provocative.
High neckline. Plain cut. Practical as hell.
On her?
It clings like it was made with her body in mind and then dared to pretend otherwise.
The fabric grips her curves tight—over wide hips and that incredible ass—like it doesn’t stand a chance against her shape.
It stretches over her chest, pulling just enough to make the weight of her big tits impossible to ignore, impossible not to notice.
And yeah, I know the shirt is supposed to fit loose.
It does everywhere else.
Across her stomach.
Down her arms.
Along her back.
But not where it matters.
Not where my eyes keep going no matter how many times I tell myself to look away.
She isn’t trying to draw attention.
There’s nothing deliberate about it.
No tilt of the hips, no calculated movement.
And that’s what makes it worse.
Because it means she has no idea what she’s doing to me just by existing in my line of sight.
She’s upset about something.
I can just tell.
Her gaze keeps flicking down to that shitty little phone she carries, her brow furrowing every time she checks it.
She picks it up again, thumb hovering like she’s debating whether to try calling.
She probably doesn’t have service up here.
I consider offering her my phone.
Then I stop.
The thought of her calling someone—a man, maybe—sets something dark and irrational off in my chest.
Jealousy flashes sharp and ugly, even though I have no right to it.
Even though it’s overbearing.
Even though it’s stupid.
I don’t ask.
Yet.
I just watch her.
Watch the way she tucks a curl behind her ear when she’s thinking.
The way her shoulders tense like she’s bracing for something that hasn’t happened yet.
Whatever’s haunting her?
I want it gone.
And the realization that I’m already thinking like that—already imagining myself as the solution—tells me I’m in deeper than I should be.
But there’s no backing out now.
Not when she’s here.
Not when she’s under my roof.
Not when every instinct I have is locked on her and refusing to let go.
Whatever she’s running from?
It won’t touch her here.
Not without going through me first.