Chapter 39
THATCHER
Just got off the damn phone with Lawrence, who’s once again pissed about another delayed delivery.
And sure, I get it—he’s got deadlines.
But what the fuck am I supposed to do about road closures and snow accumulation when half the mountain is buried, and the other half is mud?
The prick doesn’t even bother calling the main office anymore.
No.
He calls me directly.
Probably because after the last time he cursed at my girl over an invoice, I made it very clear that wouldn’t happen again.
Very clear.
Threats may or may not have been involved.
I push the thought out of my mind as I head toward the office, scanning the yard.
Everyone’s where they’re supposed to be, doing what needs to be done.
Despite the snow.
Despite the chaos.
We’re moving.
And I’m fucking grateful.
This sawmill provides for over three dozen families, including Kelly’s and my own, so I work hard to keep it profitable.
We all do.
March in Maine is a messy bastard—one moment it’s snowing, the next it’s slush and sun and everything melting into a sea of brown.
Late thaw’s supposed to hit next week, and that means mud season.
Hell on the roads.
Hell on the equipment.
But somehow my thoughts shift—like they always do now—to her.
Willow.
I think of her in those new boots she loves so much. I grin to myself.
She doesn’t know it yet, but I already ordered a custom pair of insulated, knee high rain boots just for her.
Bubblegum pink.
Matte finish.
Detailed with her willow tree.
Rugged, but cute as hell.
She’s going to lose her damn mind when she sees them.
Can’t have Baby Girl tromping around this mountain in anything less than the best.
But it’s been hours since I’ve seen her.
And I need my Willow fix.
Need to see her face.
Hear her voice.
Touch her skin.
I’m salivating at thoughts of just kissing her.
Even though I know what it’s like. Even though last night she was wrapped around me like a fucking python.
Fuck, there goes my boner.
I know I’m obsessed. Unhinged.
I fucking know that.
And I don’t give a damn.
This woman has her fingers in my chest and her scent in my lungs, and I need her.
I’ve never felt like this before.
And yeah, I know it’s fast.
Too fast, maybe.
But it doesn’t feel wrong.
It feels inevitable.
Hell, I’ve already caught myself thinking about what it would take to keep her here.
Permanently.
Asking her to stay.
Asking her to marry me.
I bite back the thought.
Not yet.
Too soon.
But kissing her?
Touching her?
Reminding her exactly how wanted she is?
Yeah. That I can do.
I quicken my pace toward the office, grinning like a fool.
“Damn, boss! You out here runnin’ like the hounds of hell are on your heels,” Mack calls as I pass.
I flip him the bird and don’t even slow down.
“Willow?” I call, pushing the front door open before it even finishes clicking shut.
But what I find waiting for me inside that tiny office?
It’s not her smile.
Not her bright eyes or that soft laugh I’ve come to crave.
No. Shit.
Willow is standing behind the desk, eyes rimmed red, cheeks streaked with tears, her hand clutching her phone like it just delivered a death sentence.
My stomach drops.
I turn ice cold.
All the oxygen gets sucked out of the room.
“Willow?” I rush forward. “What is it, Baby? Are you hurt? Sick?”
I run my hands up her sides, checking for injury. I cup her cheeks, and she turns her face to me, her lip trembling.
“What? Oh, Thatcher, no it’s not me. It’s my grandfather. He’s—he’s in the hospital. Mom said it’s bad. Just a few days at most.”
Fuck. My heart lurches.
“I have to go home,” she whispers, voice cracking. “I—I have to go back to New Jersey.”
And just like that, my day—hell, my whole fucking world—shatters.