Chapter 50
WILLOW
Ican’t believe that just happened.
My breath is heaving.
I’m so weak-kneed I’m barely upright as Thatcher reaches between my legs and gently cleans up some of the mess we made with his bare hand.
He reaches over and grabs a paper towel—presumably to clean his hand.
Then he adjusts my clothes with those big, capable hands, and gently turns me around, lifting me like I weigh nothing and settling me back on the counter.
I do weigh something, and that’s what makes this even more special. Because Thatcher doesn’t shrink from me. Not from my size or the emotional baggage I still need to work on.
He’s better than that. Hell, he’s better than most.
His jeans are fastened again in a few quick movements, but he doesn’t step away.
Instead, he pulls me into his arms like he’s afraid I might disappear if he lets go.
A deep, low growl rumbles from his chest as he buries his face in the crook of my neck.
“I didn’t know where you were,” he rasps. His voice is rough, broken. “Didn’t know if you were safe. Willow, I damn near lost my damn mind.”
And just like that, the air in my lungs vanishes.
My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to get to him, like it knows something I’m still trying to believe.
This man—this huge, gruff, gorgeous man—was scared. For me.
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down into me again, needing his weight, his warmth, his steady breath against my skin.
I’ve never felt safer in my life than I do in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Not because I did anything wrong, but because I hate that I caused him pain.
Because I hate the thought of even one moment when he questioned us—when he questioned me.
But that’s my fault because I still haven’t told him everything. And I need to.
He shakes his head slowly, his hands splayed across my back, holding me together like he knows I’m still coming apart.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, softer this time.
And I mean it. Not because I did something wrong, but because I hate that even for a second, I let doubt creep in.
Between us.
He shakes his head immediately, his forehead resting against mine like he needs the contact as much as I do. His breath is uneven, hot between us.
“Don’t be,” he murmurs. “Just… fuck, Willow. I know today was a lot. I know you probably heard things.”
I blink, pulling back just enough to look at him.
“What are you talking about?”
He exhales hard, jaw clenching like he’s gearing up for a fight.
“Kelly called me. Told me what happened. Those goddamn old biddies at the bank running their mouths. Darla showing her face like a ghost from hell.”
My eyes widen.
Oh.
Oh no.
He sees the realization dawn on my face and gently tilts my chin up with a rough thumb. His eyes are dark, raw, searching mine for something.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. About my past. About Darla. I wasn’t trying to hide it, Baby Girl, I swear. I just— I didn’t think it mattered. Didn’t want to waste space between us on something that’s dead and buried.”
“You were engaged,” I say quietly.
Not accusing.
Just confirming.
He nods, once.
“We’d been together since high school. Got engaged a few years after. I was stupid and restless and thought loving someone meant doing what they wanted. She wanted out of here. A fast life. City lights. I tried to be what she needed, and in the end, she left anyway.”
I bite my lip, absorbing that.
“When?”
“I don’t know, like twenty years ago.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Haven’t seen her since. Didn’t give her a second thought until today. And even then, only because she might’ve gotten near you.”
My chest tightens.
“People assumed you never got over her.”
He huffs.
“I can’t control that. Let ‘em assume. Fact is, I don’t care what people think—except for you. And it wasn’t until Kelly called that it hit me you might hear that shit and believe it.”
I shake my head slowly. “So Kelly knows about us now?”
“Yeah. Why? Fuck. You think I’m trying to keep us from her? No, no, no. Willow, I swear—”
“I didn’t say that,” I tell him.
He still looks horrified.
I want to laugh. I want to reassure him, and since I can’t not touch him when he’s this close, I squeeze the hands I already have on his wide shoulders.
“Look, Thatcher, this is still new. We don’t know each other well enough yet—”
“Fuck that. I know you. Tell me I don’t know you, Baby Girl. And I’m an open book. Anything you want, Willow, you ask and I’ll tell you.”
“Okay, so why all this when I got here? Not that I’m complaining,” I begin.
“Shit. Okay. Well, truth is I-I thought you left me,” he says so low I almost don’t hear him.
He thought I left? Why?
Oh.
“Thatcher, I wasn’t late to punish you or freak out. What happened at the bank shocked me, yeah, but I wasn’t running away. One of the lanes on the highway was closed, and traffic was hell. And then my phone died.”
“What? That’s it?”
He cocks his head to the side, and he looks so damn cute it isn’t even fair.
“That’s it.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps.
“I thought you left,” he repeats, and his arms tighten around me.
His voice cracks like something fragile. Something that’s been held together for way too long.
“I thought you heard everything and realized I was a liar or worse. I thought you decided maybe this wasn’t worth it. That I wasn’t worth risking your heart on.”
That hits me like a wrecking ball to the chest.
Because I hear what he’s not saying.
I thought I lost you.
And suddenly, everything clicks into place.
The look in his eyes when I pulled into the lot.
The way he lifted me out of the truck like I was oxygen and he’d been suffocating.
The desperation in his kiss. In his sex.
It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t control.
It was fear.
Real, gut-deep fear.
And something else under it.
Something deeper. Something I now know is real between us.
He cups my cheeks like I’m breakable, like I’m his whole world.
“Just for the record, I don’t give a rat’s ass about Darla. Or anyone else. Just you.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Only ever you.”
I press my forehead to his again, eyes stinging.
“Good. Because I’m not going anywhere, Thatcher.”
His arms tighten around me like he doesn’t believe it yet.
Like he’s still holding his breath.
“And just for the record,” I whisper, repeating his words, and forcing a shaky laugh, “after what we just did in here? You better not ever be thinking about any other woman.”
That finally cracks the tension in his face.
His mouth twitches.
“Smartass.”
“Yeah, but I’m your smartass,” I say before I can stop myself.
The word slips out like it was waiting.
His whole body stills.
His eyes lock on mine.
Then he exhales, voice hoarse. “Say that again.”
I swallow. “I’m yours, Thatcher. I-I love you.”
“Willow,” he whispers my name like a prayer.
“I love you, Willow. I love you so fucking much,” he says, then his lips crush into mine like he’s sealing a promise with every breath.
Somewhere deep inside, something shifts.
Because maybe it’s still scary.
Maybe love still feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, heart racing, breath caught in your throat.
But this man?
He’s not just the fall.
He’s the safety net.
The solid ground.
The reason I don’t need to be afraid anymore.
And for the first time in my life, I’m not just falling—I’m leaping.
Headfirst.
Eyes wide open.
Because this is real.
He’s real. And somehow, this big, strong, sexy lumberjack is impossibly mine.
And I’m his.
“Damn right you’re mine,” he growls, scooping me off the table like I weigh nothing, heading straight for the truck.
“Wait! The groceries—”
“They can wait. I’m taking you home.”
My face actually aches from how hard I’m smiling, but I nod, heart full.
That sounds perfect.
“You okay with that, Baby Girl?”
“I’m more than okay with it, Mountain Man. Take me home.”