Willow.
Like the tree.
Flexible. Resilient. Strong enough to bend without breaking.
Yeah.
She’s Willow.
And that’s my new favorite name.
CHAPTER 4
WILLOW
“Willow,” he repeats.
And holy shit—I might actually be having a heart attack.
Hearing my name in his voice does something strange to my insides, like it rearranges them without permission.
Low. Rough.
Like gravel warmed by the sun. I swallow hard and force myself not to stare.
Which is difficult.
Because this man is huge.
Not fat—there’s not an ounce of softness where there shouldn’t be—but big in a way that feels elemental.
Like he was carved out of the mountains surrounding us.
He’s easily six-foot-five, maybe taller, with shoulders so broad they look like they were designed to carry weight.
Real weight.
Logs.
People.
Me—no, stop that.
He’s wearing flannel. Buffalo plaid, I think it’s called. You know, the red and black one.
The fabric looks thick, durable, stretched tight across his chest when he moves like it’s daring the seams to try their luck.
Jeans cling to powerful legs—long, muscular thighs that make my brain supply completely inappropriate comparisons.
Rugby player thighs.
Why do I know that?
Because I’ve been following the Carolina Rovers on social media ever since they had that charity gala where they auctioned off dates with players and went viral.
Anyway, why am I thinking about his legs?
Does he work here?
