Chapter 14
WILLOW
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
My hot mountain man lumberjack boss just kissed me.
Like—actually kissed me.
Not a dream.
Not a fantasy I cooked up because I’m lonely and cold and living in a cabin on a mountain.
It happened.
His mouth on mine.
Brief. Yes.
But it was real.
“What smells so damn good?” Mack asks, bursting through the lunchroom door like the world didn’t just tilt on its axis.
Maybe it didn’t for him.
But for me? It absolutely did.
I’m stunned, but I remember he told me to sit, and I do.
I sink down into the chair, hardly aware of anything around me.
For a man built like a mountain himself, Thatcher McCrae’s lips are impossibly soft. Warm. Way too memorable for a kiss that lasted less than a heartbeat.
I catch myself wondering—ridiculously—if he uses ChapStick.
Or some kind of secret mountain man skin care routine women would sell organs for.
Andy, Arthur, and a half dozen more guys form a long line inside, boots thudding, voices rising, hunger obvious, waiting for their turn at the little spread I set up.
I guess life just barrels forward whether I’m ready or not.
Mack lingers near me, setting a bottle of water down by the chair to my right like he’s trying a little too hard.
“Smells really good in here, Willow,” he says, flashing a grin. “You do something special today?”
“Oh—um—it’s just soup and chicken salad,” I reply.
“Just?” He laughs. “How’d you know that was my favorite?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “I didn’t. But I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will.” He leans back against the table. “So, how’re you liking Woodhaven so far? Everything okay?”
“I haven’t seen much of it,” I say honestly. “Mostly just work.”
I sense it before I see it—the shift in the room.
Thatcher is already moving.
He comes back with a tray loaded with a little of everything and sets it down in front of me.
His jaw is tight. His eyes flick to Mack. He doesn’t blink.
Mack swallows.
“H-hi, boss.”
“Better get in line before it’s all gone, son,” Thatcher says, voice low and edged.
Mack nods fast and makes himself scarce.
I bite the inside of my cheek, pretending very hard not to notice.
Mack squeaks—squeaks—and scurries off.
I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
Thatcher sets an identical tray in the seat Mack was clearly angling for, then straightens like nothing unusual happened.
Like he didn’t just brand himself onto my thoughts.
I stare at the food. At the soup. The rolls. The apple cobbler cooling in a tiny disposable bowl.
Then, I look at my hands, which are still faintly trembling.
I have no idea what’s happening.
My life is complicated.
Messy, fragile in places I don’t like to look at too closely.
This is the worst possible time for whatever this is.
Except—there’s no denying it anymore.
He kissed me.
I didn’t imagine the long looks and yearning.
Or the way his voice drops when he says my name.
Or that nickname he calls me—Baby Girl—which should make me roll my eyes but instead makes something soft and dangerous unfurl inside me.
I tell myself this has to be proximity.
Geography.
Limited options.
I mean—this is a literal mountain town.
As far as I can tell, the only other woman who comes around regularly is his sister.
In a city with a million people, Thatcher McCrae probably wouldn’t even notice me.
I’d be another face in the crowd.
Another pleasantly plump—I hate that description, but it’s nicer than fat—woman passing through his line of sight without leaving a mark.
But here?
Here, I exist.
I’m seen.
And maybe—just maybe—letting myself feel wanted for once isn’t a mistake.
Not if I stay aware.
Not if I stay me.
“Your thoughts are loud, Willow,” he rumbles, leaning just close enough that only I can hear him.
His voice is low, steady, threaded with something that makes my pulse stumble.
“We’ll get to all that. But not now.”
“Not now,” I repeat.
He nods.
“Eat your lunch.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
But I obey. I am suddenly very focused on my plate.
I take a breath, pick up my fork, and dig in. The soup is warm and comforting, exactly what I hoped it would be.
Thatcher watches me long enough to make sure I actually take a bite—really swallow it—before he finally sits and starts on his own meal.
It’s such a small thing.
Such a quiet kind of care.
And as I sit there—surrounded by noise and men and the scent of food and pine and warmth—I have to fight the urge to smile like a woman who’s just realized the impossible might not be impossible at all.
Like maybe, against all logic and reason, the mountain man across from me actually wants me back.