Chapter 38
WILLOW
The rest of the week rushes by in a blur of snow flurries, icy windshields, invoice reminders, and half-frozen thermoses—but I love it.
No, scratch that. I live for it.
Okay, maybe not all of it.
Because what I really love?
Working with Thatcher.
I love the way his voice sounds when he’s problem-solving.
The way he leans over my desk to ask me something he already knows the answer to—just so I’ll look up at him?
It’s ridiculous.
And completely, stupidly endearing.
Because that man could have every answer in the world, and he’d still find a reason to hover close, to catch my eyes, to give me that lazy, devastating smile like I’m the thing he’s hungry for.
And the way he lights up when I bring him a sandwich?
You’d think I was handing him the last meal on earth.
He doesn’t just smile—he beams.
Like I’m offering him treasure.
Like I’m the most thoughtful woman to ever butter bread and slap meat between it.
And maybe that’s what guts me the most.
The way he sees me in all the smallest, quietest ways.
He notices when I’m tired.
When I’m cold. Or hungry.
When I don’t ask for anything—but maybe wish I could.
The boots were the first thing that broke me a little.
Then came the coat.
It’s a good one.
Thick. Weatherproof. Stitched with reinforced seams and a soft lining that makes it feel like armor.
It’s gorgeous. Warm. Expensive.
I don’t know how to accept things like this.
Not from a man.
Not from anyone.
No one’s ever really given me much before—besides grief or expectations.
Not my mother.
Not Dan.
So when Thatcher hands me this coat, tags still on, and says, “Try it on, Baby Girl,” like it’s no big thing?
I feel my throat go tight.
I tell him I’ll pay him back. I insist.
And he just shakes his head, like I’ve said something absurd.
Then he kisses me. Hard.
It’s the kind of kiss that melts arguments and turns logic into steam.
The kind of kiss that says you’re mine, and I take care of what’s mine.
And maybe I should push back harder.
But I don’t know how. And I don’t really want to.
Thatcher seems to enjoy giving, and I can’t help but take.
Maybe I’m greedy.
Maybe I’m just unsure how healthy relationships work.
But I try to give back.
I insist we split chores, though he argues.
And since I love to do it, I cook. Every night.
He helps, and he’s hopeless at it, but I love it when he tries.
We talk. We laugh.
And somewhere between those easy conversations and shared meals, I start to feel like I can be myself again.
No eggshells.
No editing who I am to make someone else more comfortable.
No apologizing for existing.
It’s all just blissfully normal.
Which feels revolutionary.
At night, when we’re in bed, I give Thatcher pieces of myself I didn’t know I still had.
Little things.
Quiet things.
Scars I’ve been hiding under polite smiles and lowered eyes.
I let him touch my body like it’s something sacred, not a problem to be solved or a chore to get through.
And he looks at me like he sees me, with all my human flaws, and he still wants me.
He looks at me like I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
If he feels even one fraction of what he makes me feel, then I’ve done something right in this life.
I bite my lip, fingers pausing over the keyboard as I glance down at my desk.
Work is hectic—chaotic, even.
The snow won’t quit, which means deliveries are delayed, repairs are piling up, and half the crew spends their day just trying to keep the paths clear.
But you know what?
I love it.
The rhythm of the job—the grind, the problem-solving, the responsibility—it feeds something in me I didn’t realize was starving.
I like being useful. I like showing up.
I like being part of something bigger than just the numbers game they played where I used to work for that slimy realtor friend of Dan’s in Florida.
I’ve got the hang of the computer system now.
And even though I still fumble sometimes, every vendor and customer I speak to is kind and patient.
Which stuns me, honestly.
People being nice about mistakes? Unheard of.
Kelly checks in often, always from bed, always warning me not to be a damn martyr when it comes to break time.
She’s sharp and organized, and a complete force of nature—something I admire more and more with every phone call.
But I’ve stopped calling her quite as much.
Partly because I think I’m finally getting the hang of things.
And partly, well, partly because I haven’t told her about me and Thatcher. And he hasn’t either.
It’s not that I’m ashamed.
God, no.
It’s just, this thing between us still feels fragile, like something too beautiful to name out loud.
Like a secret I want to keep pressed to my heart a little longer before I let the world touch it.
Thatcher is beyond affectionate.
He holds my hand. Opens doors. Kisses me every chance he gets.
And he doesn’t hide us—not in front of the crew, not in front of Tim, not even in front of Mack, who gives us both a knowing smirk but says nothing.
But we haven’t left the mountain either.
Haven’t done anything besides food shopping.
We haven’t gone to a movie in town, though I know there is one small theater located out on the highway.
Haven’t gone to church on a Sunday—if that’s a thing here.
And no, we haven’t bumped into locals or shared a booth in some cozy little diner where someone might raise a brow.
And no, I don’t need that stuff, but I also don’t know what that means. If it’s significant in some way.
Because I don’t know what we mean yet. Not in the real world, anyway.
Still, I stop myself from spiraling.
Don’t borrow trouble, I whisper in my mind, like a mantra I’m still trying to believe in.
I take a deep breath and glance around the office.
My desk.
The coffee pot is full, the crew is humming outside, and the sun is breaking through the snow clouds just enough to send streaks of light across the paperwork I’ve managed to finally catch up on.
And despite everything I’ve been through—despite the fear, the pain, the lingering shadows of who I used to be—I feel something unfamiliar bubbling up inside me.
Contentment.
Joy, even.
Most of all?
I feel capable.
I feel like I belong here.
Not just at the mill.
Not just in this job.
But on this mountain. In this life. With him.
And for once, I don’t talk myself out of it.
I let myself want it.
I let myself dream.
Because maybe I’m finally safe enough to believe I deserve this.
I know it sounds cliché, but every day really is better than the last.
Every night, I go home with him.
With Thatcher.
And that man—Lord above—that man gives a whole new meaning to the word sex.
Because it’s not just the way he moves or the way he kisses.
It’s not even the growl in his throat or the way his body cages mine like I’m something precious and breakable—and also maybe something that’s his.
It’s what he makes me feel.
When Thatcher touches me?
It’s like the rest of the world disappears.
No one else exists. No past. No shadows. No broken pieces.
Just him. Just us.
His hands on my skin are more than hands—they’re a promise.
A prayer.
A demand I want to answer.
And when he looks at me like I’m everything?
I believe it.
That I’m beautiful. Desirable. Powerful.
That I’m worth wanting.
He doesn’t just see my body—he worships it.
Every soft curve, every scar, every hidden place I was taught to hide.
He makes me feel like fire and silk and moonlight, like I’m wild and sacred all at once.
And when he’s inside me—whispering my name like a vow, holding me like I’m the only thing tethering him to earth—I feel whole.
I didn’t know sex could be like that.
I didn’t know I could be like that.
But with Thatcher, I am.
With him, I’m not just surviving.
I’m alive. I’m enough.
My favorite part? The way he holds my hand every time we walk from the office to the lunchroom or the truck.
He opens doors. Pulls me into his side when no one’s looking and kisses me like the air between us is a sin.
And I’m starting to crave that affection. To need it.
Which scares the hell out of me.
But I’m so tired of being scared.
Tired of waiting for something to go wrong.
Tired of punishing myself for being alive.
Tired of living like I don’t deserve joy.
I shove that voice down—the one that says don’t get used to it. The one that always whispers it won’t last.
“Shut up,” I murmur to myself.
Because I’m done listening to ghosts.
I made it out. I’m healing.
Slowly, yeah.
But it’s happening. And I can feel this future solidifying around me like it’s mine.
I’m going to stop running.
Not just from Dan—but from the fear he left behind.
So I decide right then, as I’m organizing payroll receipts and sipping lukewarm coffee, that I’m going to tell Thatcher everything.
All of it.
Why I ran. What I left behind. Why I kept it from him.
Not the short version I gave him the other night.
He deserves the truth. We deserve a real shot.
It’s not all because of him—okay, maybe a big part of it is—but I know I can’t pin my healing on a man. Not even on one like him.
That part’s mine to fix.
So while he’s out on the mill floor, probably half-covered in sawdust and barking orders at Mack, I pick up my phone. And I call my mother back.
It’s time to stop avoiding the people I left behind.
Time to face whatever comes next.
The phone rings twice. Then three times.
Finally, she picks up.
“Willow? Is that you?” Her voice is high-pitched and panicked. “Oh, thank God! Willow, it-it’s Grandpa.”
The air in the office goes thin.
I sit up straight, grip tightening on the phone.
“What? What happened?” I ask, heart slamming against my ribs.
“He collapsed last week. They rushed him to the hospital. I didn’t know how to reach you, I didn’t know if I should call the police to find you—”
My throat closes.
Collapsed.
Hospital.
No. No, no, no.
I didn’t know.
God, how could I know?
Aside from my father, Grandpa is the only family member I have who’s shown me any affection. He’s a sweet and kind old man, and I love him dearly.
I’m not blaming my mother. She is who she is, and I’m sure she has her reasons.
But all at once, the ground I’ve just started to build beneath me starts crumbling.
The warmth of Thatcher’s home, the rhythm of the mill, the slow, sweet trust that’s been blooming between us—it all tilts sideways.
My heart pounds. My stomach knots. My fingers are trembling as I scribble down the name of the hospital.
“You need to come home, Willow. You need to say goodbye to Grandpa.”
I hang up.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until I taste salt on my lips.