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.
