Ithought driving in the snow was bad.
But driving through slush, black ice, and ankle-deep mud that grabs at your tires like a curse from some woodland spirit?
That really takes the cake.
After the bank, I went to the store like I planned.
Just the usual essentials for running the sawmill’s lunchroom.
But the traffic leaving the Supercenter was a nightmare, and the sky turned dark before I even hit the main road back.
And of course—of course—my phone died somewhere between checkout and that last hairpin turn near the mill.
To make it worse? The charger in the truck gave up the ghost halfway through the drive.
Because that’s just the kind of luck I have.
Bad. Borderline comical.
I chew the inside of my cheek as I pull into the lot by the lunchroom, headlights cutting through the fog like twin knives.
I shift into park and rest my hands on the wheel, trying not to spiral.
He’s going to be mad.
I stop because, no.
No, he’s not.
Thatcher isn’t like that.
He doesn’t rage when things don’t go as planned.
He doesn’t sneer, or belittle, or withhold warmth to punish me.
That’s old Willow talking.
This is new Willow.
And new Willow doesn’t let fear crawl up her spine when she’s done nothing wrong.
Still, my stomach clenches as I kill the engine.
I reach for the door handle.
But then—the door rips open.
I barely have time to register anything before two huge hands are on me, unbuckling my seatbelt with practiced speed.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but I don’t get the chance.
Because suddenly I’m airborne.
Pressed to a broad chest, Thatcher’s heartbeat thunderous in my ear.
“You’re okay,” he growls, voice sharp and low and shaking with something primal. “Tell me you’re okay.”
It’s not a question. It’s a command.
