Chapter 12
WILLOW
Mom messaged me last night.
I didn’t see it until this morning, and the moment I did, my stomach dropped hard and fast.
I called her once after I settled in, careful not to tell her where I was.
She asked, of course.
She always does.
I hedged, danced around it, changed the subject.
She doesn’t understand my situation—and after years of trying to explain myself into knots, I finally gave up.
She doesn’t even have this number.
I’m using a free call-forwarding service, one of those temporary setups you can abandon without a trace.
I gave her that number just in case.
Emergencies only.
There’s a feature that hides my real number when I call her back, which makes me feel marginally safer.
But for whatever reason—the mountain, the weather, bad luck—I’m barely getting any bars.
And my mind goes straight to worst-case scenarios.
I told her not to call me.
Not unless she really had to.
Like if Grandpa got sick.
Please, God, don’t let that be it.
My family is small now. Smaller than it used to be.
But I still love them—even if they don’t quite understand me.
Even if they love me in ways that sometimes hurt.
My phone sits on the desk like it’s judging me.
I feel him before I see him.
Thatcher.
I don’t look up, but I know he’s nearby. I can feel his attention like a weight between my shoulder blades.
It’s unnerving and oddly reassuring at the same time.
I snap my focus back to the computer screen, forcing myself to concentrate on invoices and numbers instead of spiraling.
The phone rings.
I jump.
It’s not my cell phone. It’s the landline.
The sound is sharp, sudden, and for half a second I just stare at it like it might bite me. I’m still frozen when I hear heavy footsteps approaching.
I grab the receiver.
“McCrae Lumber & Sawmill, can I help you?” I say, proud my voice doesn’t shake.
“Where the fuck is McCrae?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Are you fucking deaf, woman? I said I want McCrae! That son of a bitch is out of his fucking mind if he thinks I’m paying this exorbitant—”
The voice is loud. Angry. Too similar to someone else’s and in all the wrong ways.
Before I can react, the phone is gently but firmly taken out of my hand.
“Goddamn it, Leonard,” Thatcher growls, voice low and lethal. “Do not call my office and chew out my employees with that fucking tone again. You hear me?”
My heart slams against my ribs.
My employees.
That’ s what I am.
It hurts. But that’s dumb. There’s no reason for it to.
Thatcher presses a button, rerouting the call to his office, and replaces the receiver like this kind of thing doesn’t faze him at all.
Then he looks at me.
The edge in his expression softens immediately.
“He’s a dick, but he’s a good customer. That’s no excuse for talking to you like that. I’m sorry, Baby Girl,” he says quietly.
“It’s okay,” I reply immediately.
“It’s not. I’ll make it right. Now, why don’t you head down to the lunchroom? I’ll meet you there in a minute.”
I nod.
And I go.
Because the truth is—I’m really confused.
And I hate confrontation.
Loud voices still make me jump.
And anger hurled like a weapon scares the shit out of me.
Most of all, I hate men who think verbal abuse is acceptable, who use volume and intimidation to make themselves feel big.
It’s not the cursing.
I don’t mind curses.
It’s the yelling. The menace.
Thatcher isn’t like that.
He didn’t tell me to toughen up.
Didn’t mock me or roll his eyes or tell me to grow a spine.
He stepped in without hesitation.
Took control without taking anything from me.
He didn’t belittle me for my involuntary reaction to the stranger’s ire.
He respected me.
And that might be the sexiest thing about him.
Well.
That and the way his thighs fill out his jeans when he walks away.