Chapter 40
WILLOW
Idon’t know what I expected—but it sure as heck wasn’t this.
I’m stunned.
But not in a bad way.
The second I told Thatcher I needed to go back to New Jersey—to check on my grandfather, maybe to face the past—he didn’t ask questions.
He just moved.
Plans were made.
Calls were placed.
And somehow, less than two hours later, we’re standing on a tarmac outside a small, snow-dusted regional airport in Maine, about to board a goddamn private plane.
I mean, yes, I’ve seen the invoices at the mill.
I know the kind of money that moves through McCrae Lumber.
I’ve seen the big checks, the supply chain spreadsheets, the outgoing payments to vendors with more zeroes than I’ve ever had in my account at once.
But I never equated it to Thatcher’s personal wealth.
He doesn’t flash money.
Doesn’t drive some flashy truck or wear designer anything.
His flannels are worn, his boots scuffed, and I’ve seen him scrub oil off his hands with dish soap in the breakroom sink like everyone else.
So this?
This jet?
It makes my stomach clench.
I’m trying not to overthink, but it’s like the math in my head suddenly isn’t mathing.
And somewhere between my grandfather’s illness, the speed of our relationship, and the man at my side who just dropped more money than I’ve ever made in a year like it was nothing—I’m spiraling.
I chew on my lower lip.
I don’t even realize I’m doing it until Thatcher’s warm, calloused fingers catch my chin, and his thumb gently tugs my lip free.
“Don’t do that,” he says softly. “You’ll hurt yourself, Baby Girl.”
His voice is deep, steady. A low rumble of concern that cuts through the noise in my head.
I blink up at him, startled.
He’s watching me with that unreadable expression of his—equal parts protective and possessive.
His body is a wall of strength, standing between me and everything I can’t control right now.
We’re boarding a private jet.
I’ve never even seen one in real life, let alone stepped foot on one.
There’s a sleek black SUV still idling behind us and two men in snow gear loading our bags like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Greyson Cole—the mountain hermit who makes great boots—is at the front of the plane, giving Thatcher a thumbs-up like this is just something they do on weekends.
And me?
I’m standing here in my cheap leggings and my Walmart fleece like a woman who walked onto the set of a movie she wasn’t cast in.
I swallow.
I don’t know how he did this.
I don’t know how Thatcher McCrae moves the world like this, but clearly, he does.
But this time he did it for me.
He notices the panic in my eyes and drops his voice even lower.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his hand coming up to cradle my cheek. “You don’t have to be scared.”
But I am.
Not of the plane.
Not of the money.
Not even of going back to New Jersey.
I’m scared because I’m falling for a man I don’t fully understand.
He’s quiet and brooding and built like a Greek god carved from pine and sin.
He works like a beast, fights like a bear, and makes love to me like I’m the most sacred thing he’s ever touched.
And now? Now there’s this other version of him.
This man who can make a single phone call and get us on a jet.
A man who calls in favors from friends with expensive tools and says things like “whatever it costs.”
And it makes me wonder—what else don’t I know?
“Stop thinking so loud,” he murmurs as the wind kicks up around us. “You’re doing that thing again. The thing where you talk yourself out of being okay.”
I blink at him, stunned by how well he’s come to know me.
Then he leans down, his lips brushing mine in a soft, anchoring kiss.
It’s hungry. Possessive.
But more than that? It’s home.
I exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay?” he repeats.
I nod. “Just, don’t let go of my hand.”
He squeezes my fingers like a vow. “Never.”
And just like that, I take the step.
Onto the plane. Into the unknown.
With him.
Still nervous. Still spinning.
But—for the first time in years—I don’t feel alone.
“You know I don’t usually make trips like this without some damn warning,” Greyson Cole grumbles from the cockpit, adjusting a headset as he prepares the flight plan.
I’m still too stunned to be afraid. I’ve never been on a small plane.
I’m not sure if I’m more scared of the takeoff or of what’s waiting for me when we land.
“You’re charging me enough to make up for it,” Thatcher quips, slipping his arm around my waist.
I grab his hand automatically.
“Just kidding, Baby,” he murmurs near my ear. “It’s all good. You get your seatbelt on.”
I do what he says because what else can I do?
This man—this impossibly steady, grounded force of a man—is doing everything in his power to make this easier for me.
Seven hours later, we land at a small regional airport about forty minutes from my childhood home.
It’s surreal.
Snow here is gone. All of it has long since melted away.
But it’s rainy, and the roads are wet.
The sky is an ugly gray, and leafless trees paint a grim sort of picture, but it’s familiar.
Painfully so.
I’ve already texted my mother.
Told her we’d be arriving past dinnertime.
She responded with a single thumbs up.
I didn’t read into it. I didn’t want to.
Now I wish I had.
Because when Thatcher pulls into the gravel drive, everything in my gut goes tight.
I step out, slowly.
My new boots crunch over the old stones, and something inside me clenches.
The house looks the same.
Faded blue siding.
A porch that needs repainting.
The creak of the screen door as Thatcher holds it open for me makes a chill run up my spine.
Then I walk in.
And the world tilts.
Not in a good way.
She’s there.
My mother.
Calm. Composed.
Sipping tea at the kitchen table like this is just another quiet afternoon.
Like she isn’t the woman who spent years carving pieces off me with her words and calling it concern.
Like she never told me—over and over—that men didn’t want girls built like me.
That I should be grateful for whatever scraps of attention I got.
Like she didn’t laugh when relatives pinched my cheeks and commented on my weight.
Like she didn’t warn me that being plump would make my life harder, my options fewer, my worth conditional.
Like she didn’t look the other way when I cried.
Like she didn’t stop answering my calls when I finally needed her most.
And sitting across from her?
Smug. Relaxed. Right at home.
Is another serpent in the garden.
Dan.
Fucking Dan.
My ex.
My mistake.
The man who dismantled me piece by piece and then had the audacity to act like I should thank him for it.
My chest locks up.
For a second, I can’t breathe.
It’s like my body remembers before my brain catches up—every late-night argument, every snide comment about my food, my clothes, my job, my body.
Every moment I swallowed my hurt because I thought love was supposed to feel like endurance.
My mother knew.
She knew what he did to me.
She knew how I felt.
Knew I was afraid.
And she let him sit at her table anyway.
I feel something inside me crack—not shatter, not explode—but split clean down the middle.
A quiet, decisive break.
All the excuses I’ve made for her over the years come rushing back, just to die.
She’s from a different generation.
She means well.
She just wants me to be safe.
No.
She wanted me small.
Manageable.
Grateful for crumbs.
And Dan?
He wanted me erased.
Probably just wanted my inheritance.
Just like her.
I stand there in the doorway, my hand still gripping Thatcher’s sleeve, my heart pounding so hard it hurts.
The room smells like tea and sugar and betrayal.
My mother looks up, startled. “Willow—”
Dan’s mouth curls into that familiar, infuriating smile.
The one that always says you’ll come back.
The one that assumes I am still weak.
Something cold and steady settles into my bones.
I feel Thatcher at my back.
He is warm, safe. Mine.
And I’m not weak anymore.
I’m done explaining.
Done excusing.
Done shrinking myself to fit into other people’s comfort.
This is the moment.
And I’m not walking away from it.
“What is all this?” I whisper.
My voice is thin, but I don’t move.
I don’t retreat.
I plant my feet right there in the doorway like if I don’t, I’ll disappear.
My mother looks up slowly, irritated, like I’ve interrupted her tea instead of walked into an ambush.
“Well,” she says coolly, eyes flicking over me in a way that used to make me shrink, “it took you long enough.”
Then her gaze slides past me.
Locks on Thatcher.
Her mouth tightens. Curls. Like she’s just tasted something bitter.
“And who,” she asks sharply, “is that?”
Before I can answer—Dan stands.
The chair scrapes loudly against the floor, and my skin crawls at the sound.
He straightens his shirt over his shorter, thin body, and I wonder why I never noticed that before—how small he is. How weak.
He stands like he owns the place.
Like he belongs here.
And he looks indignant.
Irate, even
Then that fucking smirk settles back onto the face I used to think was handsome.
God, I forgot how much I hate that smirk.
“Willow,” my mother says briskly, rising halfway out of her chair, “Dan is here to give you a second chance. Now, I suggest you tell that cab driver to leave so we can talk like adults.”
Something in me snaps.
I stare at her—really stare—for one split second.
Then I answer.
“He isn’t a cab driver,” I say, my voice shaking now but gaining strength with every word. “And I don’t want a second with that jerk. How could you?”
She scoffs, like I’m the unreasonable one.
“How could I?” she snaps. “You ungrateful little brat. I’ve put up with you for years. Your father sure left in a hurry—”
“He didn’t leave, Mom,” I shout, the words ripping out of me. “He died!”
Her face hardens.
“And he left you everything,” she shoots back. “All I got was this house—and you to take care of.”
The words hit like slaps.
My chest burns.
“Now,” she continues, gesturing toward Dan like he’s some kind of prize, “Dan is willing to let bygones be bygones. Let’s talk this through. Then we can divide your inheritance. Consider it a dowry. He’ll marry you, Willow.”
The room spins.
“What?” I choke. “Are you crazy?”
Dan’s smirk widens.
“Did you ever even love me?” I ask my mother, my voice breaking despite everything I try to hold together.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“What are you talking about?” she says coldly. “I’m your mother. Mothers don’t have to love their children.”
The silence afterward is deafening.
I swallow hard, my eyes burning, my heart breaking in a way that feels final.
“I guess not,” I whisper. “But it would have been nice.”
I don’t cry.
Not this time.
I straighten my spine, step fully into the room, and finally—finally—stop making excuses for her.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel small.
I feel done.
“Goodbye, Mother,” I say.
My voice doesn’t shake this time.
It’s quiet. Final.
And I know—deep in my bones—that the only reason I’m still upright is the solid, unmovable presence of Thatcher at my back.
His warmth. His strength.
Like an anchor pressed between my shoulder blades.
Dan moves.
Of course he does.
“Well,” he sneers, lips curling, eyes sliding over me like something sticky and rotten, “guess it didn’t take you long, you fat fucking whore. Figures you’d go crawling to some big caveman to take my sloppy seconds.”
The words hit—but they don’t land.
Because Thatcher is already moving.
It’s like a switch flips inside him.
One second he’s behind me—calm, controlled, holding the line—and the next he’s gently but decisively moving me aside, stepping in front of me like a wall come to life.
The crack of his fist connecting with Dan’s jaw is deafening.
It echoes through the kitchen like thunder.
Dan staggers back, slams into the wall, and slides halfway down it before he catches himself.
Blood immediately pours from his nose.
His eyes go wild—shocked, disbelieving.
I don’t scream.
I don’t flinch.
I stand there, shaking—not with fear, but with something hot and fierce and proud.
“This is the only warning you get,” Thatcher growls, his voice low, feral, vibrating with restrained violence. “You talk about her. You touch her. You speak to her—or even think about her again—and I will fucking end you.”
I believe him.
Every cell in my body knows he means it.
My mother gasps, finally waking up to the reality unfolding in her kitchen.
“Willow! You can’t just come into my house with some caveman and—”
“You’re worried about your house?” Thatcher cuts in.
His voice doesn’t rise.
It doesn’t need to.
It’s ice-cold. Surgical. Deadly.
“You let that piece of shit sit here and wait for her like a trap,” he says, every word precise. “You let him ambush her because you didn’t think she deserved better. You tried to sell her with her own fucking money because you didn’t think anyone else would want her.”
My knees threaten to buckle.
“You were wrong,” he continues, eyes locked on my mother now. “So wrong it’s disgusting. You don’t deserve to call yourself her mother.”
The room goes dead silent except for Dan’s wheezing breaths.
“Willow!” my mom snaps, scrambling for control. “Are you really going to let him talk to me like that?”
Something clicks inside me.
I step forward.
Not behind Thatcher.
Beside him.
“What about Grandpa?” I ask, my voice steady, clear, terrifying in its calm. “Is he actually sick?”
She hesitates.
Just a fraction of a second.
But it’s enough.
“Your grandfather is fine,” she says quickly. “But Dan called. He was worried about you. He said you disappeared. Did you really just run off with this—this man?”
I laugh.
It’s sharp. Broken. Free.
“Dan is a liar, Mom,” I say. “And a manipulator. And an abusive piece of trash.”
Her lips thin. “He said you were unstable. That you needed help.”
“I’m unstable?” I repeat quietly. “He called me names. Blamed me for everything. Took every paycheck I made for a year and a half. Controlled what I wore. What I ate. Who I spoke to.”
I meet her eyes.
“He locked the pantry. He told me no one else would ever want me.”
Silence crashes down hard.
“And I don’t know what’s worse,” I finish, my voice barely above a whisper. “That you believe him. Or that you agree with him.”
My mother opens her mouth. Closes it.
Thatcher’s hand finds mine.
Strong. Steady. Unwavering.
“I didn’t run off with another man,” I say, squeezing his fingers. “I escaped him.”
She scoffs.
And that’s it.
I turn away from her—for the last time—my hand still locked in Thatcher’s, my spine straight, my heart pounding, my future finally facing forward.
I don’t look back.
Dan is still on the floor, moaning now.
Thatcher doesn’t even look at him again.
Instead, he takes my face in his hands like I might shatter.
“You okay, Baby Girl?” he murmurs, voice gentling in a way that makes tears burn my throat.
I nod.
I shouldn’t.
But I do.
Because I’m not okay—but I will be.
With him, I will be.
I grab his hand.
“Take me home,” I whisper. “Please. Just take me home.”
He nods.
And just like that, we turn around and leave the house behind.
And I don’t look back.
Not once.