Chapter 46
WILLOW
Let me start by saying, I don’t like banks.
I don’t like the way they smell like old money and desperation.
I don’t like how cold the lighting is or how quiet it gets when you walk in like everyone’s waiting to judge you for your balance—or lack of one.
I don’t like the tiny pens on the chains. I definitely don’t like the way the people in line pretend they’re not looking at you, even as they’re assessing every inch of your outfit like it’s a fashion crime.
Now, not all banks are like this.
But I’m a stranger here.
Still new to Woodhaven.
Still figuring out which roads lead where and how to navigate life in a town that feels like it hasn’t changed in fifty years.
Other than the Supercenter and the sawmill, I haven’t been anywhere.
Not out to eat.
Not to any of the local businesses.
I wouldn’t even be here if I didn’t need to transfer funds from my savings account in Jersey to open a local one in town.
It feels like a big step.
A right one. A solid one.
Like I’m planting roots.
But now, standing here in my leggings, boots, and layered thermals—wearing the same damn outfit I wear every day at the mill—I’m starting to squirm under the fluorescent lights and narrowed glances.
Maybe I should’ve changed. Worn something more respectable, more bank appropriate.
Whatever that means.
I tug at the hem of my t-shirt, acutely aware of how plain I must look compared to everyone else waiting in line with their scarves and polished boots and quiet superiority.
The door swings open with a gust of cold air and an over-the-top voice to accompany it, and for the first time since I’ve come to Woodhaven something feels off.
“Hi, Miss Avery, is Daddy in?” The owner of the syrupy sweet voice walks past the line directly to the sole cashier, talking loud enough for it to echo off the marble floors.
I glance up just in time to see a tall blonde woman sweep into the bank like she owns it.
Miss Avery, the cashier, looks pained as she nods and presses a button on her phone.
The woman is draped in a tailored, cream-colored wool coat cinched tight at the waist with a gold buckle, her heels ticking across the tile like a countdown.
Her lip gloss catches the overhead lights—pink, glossy, and so perfect it looks weaponized.
She doesn’t even look at the rest of us standing in line.
Just stands in front of us like we’re scenery, not people.
“Is that my little Darla?” the bank manager calls out as he comes out of his office with a big smile. “What are you doing here, girl?”
“I told Mother I was coming home,” she says breezily, leaning in for a hug that’s more performance than affection. “She didn’t tell you?”
“Hey there, Miss Stern, I’m sure your mama’ll be thrilled,” offers the older woman standing directly in front of me in line, voice pitched just loud enough to carry.
Darla turns, offers her a polite smile that doesn’t quite touch her eyes—and then those sharp blue eyes find me.
She takes one glance at my chest and stills.
I blink, confused, then look down.
Right. The t-shirt.
I’m wearing one of the McCrae Lumber & Sawmill work shirts—slightly oversized and washed to softness, with the logo stitched over the breast pocket.
Her lips curve just slightly.
She hums. A soft, knowing little sound that somehow cuts through my clothes and sinks under my skin like ice water.
Danger.
“Daddy, is Thatcher still lurking around that little mill of his?”
“Now, Darla, you know McCrae turned that sawmill into a little goldmine,” her father replies.
“Might be nice to pay him a visit,” she says and smirks.
She doesn't say anything else—doesn’t have to.
“Shall we finish our reunion in my office?” the manager asks, clearly eager to get her inside.
Darla nods and slips inside without sparing another glance for the line she so thoroughly ignored.
I let out a slow breath.
I hadn’t realized I was holding it.
The older woman in front of me makes a noise—half-snort, half-sigh—and nudges her friend with the kind of amusement only small-town lifers have.
“Well, looks like Miss High and Mighty is back in town.”
“Lord help us,” the other woman replies with a dry shake of her head. “Let’s see who she ruins this time.”
I stare at the door Darla disappeared through, pulse quickening, heat creeping up the back of my neck.
Something tells me this woman doesn’t play fair.
And something else tells me she’s not just back in town.
She’s hunting.
Her friend leans in with a conspiratorial whisper.
“Wonder what trouble she’ll bring this time.”
“Hmm, you better warn your boss, Missy,” one of them says to me.
I blink.
Not my business.
Not my circus, not my monkeys. Stay in your lane, Willow.
But their voices drop again, not enough to be discreet, just enough to make you lean in.
“You know, I heard she took husband number two for quite the ride.”
“And after she ran off with that first husband of hers—left that poor McCrae boy at the altar…”
Something cold and heavy starts to drip down my spine. Both women continue their chatter like I’m not even there anymore.
“Hmm, McCrae should’ve seen right through her. Lord knows we all did.”
No. Can’t be.
I go completely still.
They don’t mean him.
“Always said it’d take more than a mountain man like Thatcher to keep Darla happy.”
I feel like someone knocked the air out of me.
“Yeah, but she’s had two husbands, and she’s back again. Wonder who’ll be number three?”
“Oh, poor old Thatcher doesn’t stand a chance if she comes after him now. And he finally hit the big time with his daddy’s lumber company. Pullin’ eight to nine figures a year, is what I heard. So it’s not really a guess where Darla’s fishing now, is it?”
“Did you hear me, girlie? Best warn your boss, or Ol’ Thatcher’s head’s liable to get turned round again by that viper.”
I want to snarl.
I want to whirl around and tell them to shove their assumptions and their gossip up their polyester-covered asses.
I want to find this Darla woman and look her dead in the eye and tell her to stay far, far away from my man.
But I do none of that.
Instead, I turn.
And I walk out of that bank with my head high and my heart pounding.
Because I’m not going to give them a show.
And I’m sure as hell not going to let their words shake the ground I’ve finally started to stand on.
Am I?