Chapter 15
THATCHER
On Friday, Willow made beef barley soup, roast beef sandwiches, and miniature cinnamon buns for dessert.
I ate four.
The buns, not the sandwiches—though I ate my fair share of those and the soup, too.
Those gooey little bites of deliciousness though?
They were soft and warm and sweet in a way that hit straight in the chest.
The guys razzed me about it for the rest of the afternoon.
I didn’t give a shit.
Saturday, we ordered pizza.
Standing order.
Same as always.
I almost forgot to tell her about it but caught myself before end of day Friday.
She still made dessert.
Red Jell-O cups with fresh whipped cream on top.
Simple, old-school. Perfect.
And what does she leave at the end of the buffet table? A little basket full of hard candies and bubblegum.
It just had to be bubblegum.
Sunday comes and goes.
We open early, knock out what needs doing, then shut down at noon like always.
No lunch.
No clatter of dishes.
No smell of something warm drifting through the mill.
And goddamn it—I miss her.
Not just the food, though that’s part of it.
It’s the quiet competence she brings with her.
The faint scent of summer and bubblegum that lingers in the air when she’s near.
Making me think of sunshine despite the bleak cold outside.
The way she moves through the space.
Like she belongs here.
Like without any rhyme or reason, she just fits into the rhythm of this place.
The low hum of her voice when she talks to the guys, steady and calm, like she smooths the rough edges just by being present.
The place feels louder without her. Harsher.
Too empty.
It hits me then how fast time is moving.
Willow’s second week slips by before I’m ready for it.
More homemade lunches.
More thoughtful touches.
The guys talk about it constantly, comparing favorites, joking about portion sizes, coming back for seconds like it’s a given now.
And something dangerously close to pride settles in my chest.
Mack’s stopped singling her out, which is better for his long-term health and continued ability to walk upright.
The others treat her with respect—maybe it’s because they like her.
Or maybe they see how I look at her, even if they don’t fully understand why.
She makes another Walmart run, and this time I don’t let her go alone.
I tell myself it’s practical.
Roads are unpredictable.
Weather turns fast this time of year.
Truth is, I don’t want to sit around wondering if she’s okay.
March is its usual New England fuckfest—half thaw, half freeze, mud one minute and ice the next.
In like a lion doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I haven’t kissed her again. Haven’t touched her. And the need to do something about it is riding me hard.
Christ, I want this woman so bad I can taste it.
It’s Monday again and there’s a storm warning.
Something in my gut tightens.
Because out here, storms don’t just roll through.
They test what you’re made of.
But as the day rolls forward, I dismiss the weather reports.
Today, she made chicken and dumplings for lunch. Chef’s salad on the side. Fresh par-baked rolls again—still not sure what that means exactly.
It was good. Really fucking good.
But the banana bread for dessert—chocolate chip, still warm in the middle—that’s what nearly undid me.
I considered wrapping some up to take home, but the guys demolished it like a pack of wolves.
Fuckers.
Maybe next time she bakes, I’ll ask her to make an extra loaf.
Just for me.
My dick twitches just thinking about it.
Jesus.
I don’t know when food became this… present in my thoughts.
I’ve never been the type to obsess over meals. I eat to fuel up. Always have.
But this?
This has very little to do with food.
I’m self-aware enough to admit it’s just her.
The care baked into every dish.
The way she pays attention.
The way she gives without taking.
Her asking if she’s allowed to almost killed me. I want to know who hurt her.
Who put that fear inside of her?
I want to gut whoever it was for doing that.
Then I want to rip it out. That fear and hurt.
I plan to rip it out. To fucking banish it from her existence.
The food feels like a metaphor, and I don’t like how accurate it is.
But what I really want is my mouth on her. My hands on her.
I want her close enough that I can tell what she smells like when she’s warm and relaxed. I want to memorize her taste.
How many nights have I spent with my cock in hand, picturing her while I jerk myself to completion?
Every fucking night since she got here.
Fuck.
I want her all the damn time.
But I can’t jerk off in here.
Not when she’s in the other room, just feet away.
The temptation to touch her will be too much.
I squeeze the phone in my hand for a second longer than necessary, using the pressure to drag myself back into the moment.
I’m in my office.
Talking to my brother-in-law.
Not standing in the lunchroom watching Willow breathe.
“You good, Thatch?” Mike asks when the silence stretches too long.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing steadiness into my voice. “Everything’s good. Give Kells and Evan my love.”
I hang up before he can dig any deeper.
I scrub a hand over my face and take a slow breath.
Kelly’s surgery went well.
That’s real relief—solid, grounding. I know how scared she was going into it, even if she tried to play it off. Knowing she’s okay eases something tight in my chest.
I push back from my desk and stand, telling myself I’m heading out to remind Willow to send Kelly a bouquet. Maybe also ask if she’d like to come with me when I visit in a week or two.
Sure, I could order the flowers myself.
But I don’t.
Because I want to see her.
I want to hear her voice.
I want to talk to her when she isn’t behind a desk or focused on work.
And no—it’s not strange to ask if she’d like to visit. Kelly and Willow have been talking every day. From what Kelly says, she likes her. Trusts her. They’ve built something like a friendship already.
That’s good.
Healthy.
And if it gives Willow another reason to stay rooted here, even temporarily?
I won’t pretend I mind.
I round the bend into the outer office—
And stop short.
She’s there.
Stretchy jeans are hugging her hips.
A gray thermal shirt underneath a McCrae Lumber & Sawmill T-shirt.
Hell yes, that’s my company’s name stretched across her chest, the cotton pulled tight in a way that makes my pulse jump.
I gave her that shirt yesterday. Told her everyone here has one.
That might be true.
Might not.
I didn’t check.
I just wanted to see her in it.
But I’ll give out a hundred of them to all the guys and their whole families if it makes her more comfortable.
I suck in a breath.
And Christ—there it is. Bubblegum.
That same sweet, summer-soft scent hits me every time she’s near.
It’s light. Clean.
Completely out of place in a sawmill full of oil and pine and sweat.
And the real mystery?
I never see her chewing any.
Which means it’s just her.
Something in her soap.
Her shampoo.
Her skin.
It settles in my chest and lingers there, impossible to ignore, making me want to lean closer than I should—close enough to figure out where that sweetness comes from and why it feels like it belongs to me already.
My cock throbs, the ache sharp and immediate, so real I swear I can taste it. I lick my lips without thinking.
This woman is going to be the death of me.
If men could actually die from wanting someone, I’d already be halfway gone.
She’s completely unaware I’m standing there.
Willow is focused on the screen, brow furrowed, fingers moving quick and sure.
Then she turns.
Sees me.
And she squeaks.
Actually squeaks.
She grabs her chest like that’s going to save her life or something, eyes wide, breath catching.
I snort. “You really gonna tell me you didn’t know I was there?”
“Sorry!” she blurts. “I didn’t see you. Um—did you need something?”
Yes, Baby Girl.
I need you.
But I don’t say it.
Not yet.
Instead I straighten, rein it in, and remind myself that control is the only thing standing between me and complete ruin.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough but steady. “Just wanted to ask you—let’s send Kelly some flowers, yeah? Surgery went well.”
Her face softens instantly.
“Oh! Of course. I’ll take care of it.”
She smiles. It’s genuine. Real.
I nod, satisfied—and far from calm.
Because every day she’s here, every meal she makes, every look she gives me without realizing what it does—I’m losing ground.
Four weeks left until Kelly comes back.
Four weeks of her still being my employee.
But I’m not sure I can fight it anymore.
Hell, I don’t even know if I want to.