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.
