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 findme.
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.
