That doesn’t help.
The wind rattles faintly against the window, and the heater hums steadily now, the cabin warm enough that I’ve kicked my blankets halfway down.
My body is tired—good tired, the kind that comes from working all day and doing well at it—but my mind refuses to follow suit.
Yeah, I was late getting back, but there was traffic because of an accident caused by the inclement weather.
And I, admittedly, drive on the slower side. Especially at night. And when I’m unused to the roads.
I replay the evening.
Him, unloading the truck by himself despite my protests.
Boxes stacked neatly, movements efficient and strong, like effort is something his body was built for.
Me, putting everything away while he hovered nearby, arms crossed, watching.
“What is all this?” he asked, eyeing the produce.
I hadn’t planned to explain myself. It just spilled out.
“Well, first, I worked everything within the budget and bought pretty much everything on the list,” I told him, suddenly nervous. “But some of the older guys were talking about cholesterol and blood pressure. So I called Kelly and asked if it was okay to make some changes to the menu, and she agreed. I hope that’s alright.”
I remember bracing myself. Waiting for correction.
For irritation.
Instead, he studied me for a long moment, unreadable.
“That’s fine. Better than, actually,” he said finally. “Never would have considered it myself.”
“Oh, um?—”
“Willow, that’s not a criticism. It’s quite the opposite.”
Oh.
I nodded my thanks.
Disbelief flooded my system.
Thatcher reacted with no anger. No reprimand.
Just acceptance.
When we finished, he walked me back to the truck like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Told me to use it while I was here.
“Just bring it to the office in the morning,” he said. “Leave the keys on the hook. Then drive it back here at night.”
“Oh—but I have a car,” I reminded him.
“Your car ain’t worth salt in this weather,” he replied, not unkindly. “If the slick doesn’t get you, the mud will. Just drive the company truck while you’re living on my mountain.”
My mountain.
The words echo now in the quiet.
