Chapter 48
WILLOW
Ithought driving in the snow was bad.
But driving through slush, black ice, and ankle-deep mud that grabs at your tires like a curse from some woodland spirit?
That really takes the cake.
After the bank, I went to the store like I planned.
Just the usual essentials for running the sawmill’s lunchroom.
But the traffic leaving the Supercenter was a nightmare, and the sky turned dark before I even hit the main road back.
And of course—of course—my phone died somewhere between checkout and that last hairpin turn near the mill.
To make it worse? The charger in the truck gave up the ghost halfway through the drive.
Because that’s just the kind of luck I have.
Bad. Borderline comical.
I chew the inside of my cheek as I pull into the lot by the lunchroom, headlights cutting through the fog like twin knives.
I shift into park and rest my hands on the wheel, trying not to spiral.
He’s going to be mad.
I stop because, no.
No, he’s not.
Thatcher isn’t like that.
He doesn’t rage when things don’t go as planned.
He doesn’t sneer, or belittle, or withhold warmth to punish me.
That’s old Willow talking.
This is new Willow.
And new Willow doesn’t let fear crawl up her spine when she’s done nothing wrong.
Still, my stomach clenches as I kill the engine.
I reach for the door handle.
But then—the door rips open.
I barely have time to register anything before two huge hands are on me, unbuckling my seatbelt with practiced speed.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but I don’t get the chance.
Because suddenly I’m airborne.
Pressed to a broad chest, Thatcher’s heartbeat thunderous in my ear.
“You’re okay,” he growls, voice sharp and low and shaking with something primal. “Tell me you’re okay.”
It’s not a question. It’s a command.
But he doesn’t even wait for an answer.
He crushes me to him, burying his face in my neck.
He’s squeezing so tight I feel like I’m going to float right out of my body.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, breath stolen from me by his urgency, by his relief.
But he’s already moving.
Stalking like a man possessed, he throws open the doors to the lunchroom, strides inside, and sets me on the counter like I’m something breakable and sacred.
His big hands come up to frame my face, rough thumbs brushing my cheeks like he’s checking for injuries he can’t see.
“Thatcher, I’m—”
He shakes his head, eyes wild and starving.
He doesn’t want excuses.
He doesn’t need reasons.
He just needs me.
And I am so there for it.
“Dammit, Baby Girl,” he mutters, voice wrecked.
He kisses me.
Hard. Desperate.
Like he thought he’d lost me and only just got me back.
His mouth claims mine with a hunger that knocks the breath out of my lungs and replaces it with his name.
My hands find the front of his flannel, and I clutch it like it’s the only thing holding me up.
And maybe it is.
Because I didn’t expect this.
This man, all rage and tenderness and possessive fire.
He’s shaking like a leaf. His heart is pounding, and he’s kissing me like it’s the end of the world.
Maybe it is.
I don’t know. I just know he’s here with me, and I’m in heaven.