When she realized I lived on a mountain and rarely left it, her disappointment was immediate.
She was gone a week later.
Good riddance, Kelly said.
Took me longer, but I eventually agreed.
Which is why the way Willow pulls at my attention has me uneasy.
Curious is one thing. Interested is another.
This—this feels like a problem in the making.
I know almost nothing about her except how she makes me feel.
Is that enough to trust her?
Shit. What the fuck am I even talking about?
This is lust.
Plain and simple.
Just desire.
An itch to scratch.
Nothing more.
That’s what I tell myself as we eat soup and sandwiches at the scarred wooden tables.
Arthur and Mack ask her questions—where she’s from, how long she plans to stay, if she’s ever seen snow like this before.
She answers easily enough, polite but careful, like she’s learned to give people just enough without giving herself away.
They’re younger than me.
Mid-thirties maybe.
Closer to her age, I’d guess.
That shouldn’t bother me.
It does.
I watch Mack’s eyes follow her when she stands to toss her trash.
The way his gaze lingers, assessing. Interested.
Before I can stop myself, I stand too.
My hip knocks into the table, just hard enough to slosh his soup over the edge and onto his lap.
“Shit!” Mack yelps, jumping back.
“Careful,” I say mildly. “Soup’s hot.”
Arthur snorts into his napkin.
