I can deal with that.
The low hum of electricity kicks on, and I let it steady me.
The sound is grounding.
Proof that things are moving forward, not backward.
Footsteps crunch outside.
I straighten quickly, smoothing my sweater and pasting on what I hope looks like a normal smile.
It must not be convincing.
Thatcher steps back inside and immediately frowns.
He rubs the back of his neck—slow, distracted—and I swear my brain short-circuits.
It’s one of those gestures men in movies do when they’re uncomfortable or worried, except this isn’t a movie and he’s infuriatingly real.
And hot.
Painfully hot.
This is ridiculous.
Iam ridiculous.
A man like this wouldn’t look at someone like me twice.
Also—he’s my boss.
Very important detail.
I need to put a lid on these wildly inappropriate thoughts before I embarrass myself beyond recovery.
If I happen to take a mental snapshot of him right now to replay later when I’m alone?
Well.
No one has to know.
“Look,” his voice interrupts my train of thought—thank God—and his tone rough, but careful, “I know this is small. If you’d rather check out rooms in town?—”
“No,” I say immediately. Too fast, maybe, but honest. “This is fine. Really. I don’t need a lot of space. It’s just me.”
He studies my face like he’s checking for cracks.
“Okay,” he says finally. “There’s bed linens in that closet. Heat and hot water should be good in an hour or two.”
“Okay.”
“And that—” he gestures toward the washer and dryer “—you can use that.”
“Really?” Relief floods me. “That’s amazing.”
“We installed it a couple years back,” he explains. “For rags, towels, stuff the guys go through. Cleaning crew comes once a month, does the whole mill, including this place.”
“That explains why it’s not dusty,” I say, genuinely grateful.
