I’m so weak-kneed I’m barely upright as Thatcher reaches between my legs and gently cleans up some of the mess we made with his bare hand.
He reaches over and grabs a paper towel—presumably to clean his hand.
Then he adjusts my clothes with those big, capable hands, and gently turns me around, lifting me like I weigh nothing and settling me back on the counter.
I do weigh something, and that’s what makes this even more special. Because Thatcher doesn’t shrink from me. Not from my size or the emotional baggage I still need to work on.
He’s better than that. Hell, he’s better than most.
His jeans are fastened again in a few quick movements, but he doesn’t step away.
Instead, he pulls me into his arms like he’s afraid I might disappear if he lets go.
A deep, low growl rumbles from his chest as he buries his face in the crook of my neck.
“I didn’t know where you were,” he rasps. His voice is rough, broken. “Didn’t know if you were safe. Willow, I damn near lost my damn mind.”
And just like that, the air in my lungs vanishes.
My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to get to him, like it knows something I’m still trying to believe.
This man—this huge, gruff, gorgeous man—was scared. For me.
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down into me again, needing his weight, his warmth, his steady breath against my skin.
I’ve never felt safer in my life than I do in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Not because I did anything wrong, but because I hate that I caused him pain.
Because I hate the thought of even one moment when he questioned us—when he questioned me.
But that’s my fault because I still haven’t told him everything. And I need to.
He shakes his head slowly, his hands splayed across my back, holding me together like he knows I’m still coming apart.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, softer this time.
And I mean it. Not because I did something wrong, but because I hate that even for a second, I let doubt creep in.
Between us.
He shakes his head immediately, his forehead resting against mine like he needs the contact as much as I do. His breath is uneven, hot between us.
“Don’t be,” he murmurs. “Just… fuck, Willow. I know today was a lot. I know you probably heard things.”
I blink, pulling back just enough to look at him.
“What are you talking about?”
He exhales hard, jaw clenching like he’s gearing up for a fight.
“Kelly called me. Told me what happened. Those goddamn old biddies at the bank running their mouths. Darla showing her face like a ghost from hell.”
My eyes widen.
Oh.
Oh no.
