Chapter 13
THATCHER
After I’m done telling my biggest customer exactly where I’ll shove his next lumber delivery if he ever calls my office and speaks to Baby Girl like that again, I’m wound tight as a cable.
Anger is still humming under my skin when I head for the lunchroom, boots heavy on concrete, jaw locked.
The second I open the door, it hits me.
The smell.
Warm. Rich. Delicious.
My stomach growls—actually fucking growls—and I freeze for half a second, caught off guard by my own reaction.
I’m used to skipping lunch all the time.
Work comes first.
Always has.
But since Willow started here? I’ve been in this room more in the last week than the month before that.
And now?
I’d come back just for this.
Kelly’s a decent cook when she has time, but that’s not her job. Bulk soups. Cold cuts. Easy fuel for men who just want coffee and something to keep them upright until quitting time.
This?
This is something else entirely.
The first crew will be here any minute, but I need a moment.
I need to tell her what this means—to them, to me—before the noise and bodies take over.
I step inside and find her behind the long table, moving carefully, methodically.
There’s an enormous bowl of chicken salad at the center, surrounded by sliced tomatoes, lettuce, onions, and sub dressing.
And—fuck me—fresh rolls.
Still warm.
The crock pot is filled with something thick and creamy, steam rising, the faint scent of lemon curling through the air.
And—sniff—is that dessert?
“Oh—hi,” she says, finally noticing me.
Her voice pulls me back into my body.
“Did you make all this?” I ask.
“Oh. Um. Yeah?”
“Baby,” I say, smiling before I can stop myself, “that wasn’t a hard question. But why?”
She blushes—soft and pink—and my chest tightens in a way that’s starting to feel dangerous.
“Well,” she says, rushing a little, “those frozen soups have so much sodium. They can’t be good for anyone.”
“And the chicken salad?” I ask. “And dessert?” I pick up a roll, still warm in my hand. “And these?”
“They’re par-baked,” she says. “You just finish them in the oven.”
I don’t know what the hell par-baked means, but I do know this—this is care.
This is effort.
This is her giving something real.
“This is too much,” I say quietly.
Her smile falters immediately.
“Oh—I’m sorry. If you don’t like it, I won’t—”
“No.” I step closer without thinking. “That’s not what I meant.”
She frowns, uncertainty flashing in her eyes, and something sharp twists in my chest.
“I meant,” I say carefully, “this is too much for you to be doing for what you’re getting paid.”
And there it is—the line.
The boundary.
The thing that snaps me back into reality even as every instinct in my body screams to pull her close.
Because I want to kiss her.
God, I want to.
She’s standing there with warm light catching in her dark hair, caramel highlights shining through, lips parted like she’s bracing for disappointment.
My chest feels too tight.
My hands itch.
But she’s my employee.
She will be until Kelly comes back.
And maybe after—maybe after I’ll figure out how to keep her here without giving her a reason to run.
Because something in my gut tells me that if she doesn’t have an anchor, she’ll disappear.
And I’ll be damned if I let that happen without trying.
She starts to turn away.
“Willow,” I say.
She spins back immediately, eyes wide, soft, searching.
“Yeah?”
We’ve got maybe thirty seconds before the men come pouring in.
I don’t think.
I don’t second-guess.
I lean forward and press my mouth to hers.
It’s brief. Controlled. A promise more than a demand.
Then I pull back.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “This looks great.”
And the way she looks at me—shaken, glowing, breath caught—tells me I just crossed a line I’m never going to want to uncross.
“Now, sit your pretty ass down, and I’ll bring you a tray.”