And I’m a man who’s learned the hard way to trust his instincts—especially when they hit this sharp, this sure.
After giving her the tour of the cabin she’ll be staying in—which, if I’m honest, is a pretty fucking miserable excuse for housing—I remind myself it’s temporary.
It keeps her close to the mill.
Close to me.
Where I can see her. Where I know she’s safe.
My own cabin sits deeper in the mountain.
Fifteen minutes farther in. Bigger. Warmer.
Built for comfort and solitude.
Knowing she’s nearby—under my watch, on my land—settles something deep in my chest.
She may not belong to me.
But while she’s here?
Nothing touches her without going through me first.
I clear my throat and hold the door open to the lunchroom, making her walk past me again just so I can breathe in her scent.
The second crew is already settling in when we step into the lunchroom.
Metal chairs scrape against the concrete floor, steam rising off crock pots, the air thick with soup and sweat and pine sap.
A dozen men look up at once.
For a split second, I expect Willow to freeze.
New town.
New job.
A room full of rough-looking men who work with their hands and don’t bother polishing the edges.
She doesn’t.
She steps in beside me, shoulders back, eyes curious but steady. She smiles—soft, real—and that alone changes the temperature in the room.
“Alright,” I say, clapping my hands once. “This is Willow. She’ll be filling in for Kelly while she’s out.”
A few nods. A couple murmured hellos.
Mack grins first, pushing his chair back.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Mack.”
“Arthur,” another guy adds, lifting his coffee mug.
“Andy,” someone else says from the back. “Ignore Mack. He’s loud.”
Mack flips him off without looking.
Willow laughs—quiet, surprised—and introduces herself like she’s done this a hundred times.
