Is it really his?
Kelly mentioned they both share ownership of the mill, but she also said Thatcher’s portion is greater since he runs it.
And she might have mentioned her brother has an affinity for the land. That his property stretches well beyond the lumberyard.
I don’t know how far or how wide, or how a person can own something as massive and immovable as a mountain—but when he says it, it makes sense.
Thatcher McCrae belongs here.
In denim and flannel.
With his scowls and growls.
Standing solid against weather and time like he was carved out of the place itself.
Like a sexy, angry mountain god.
Not some polished myth. Not distant or aloof.
More like a dark Thor. Or an unmaimed Hephaestus—powerful, controlled, simmering beneath the surface.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
This is ridiculous.
He’s my boss.
I’m barely settled.
I’m still half-expecting the other shoe to drop—to be told I’m fired, that I don’t really belong here, that I should move on before I get too comfortable.
And yet—I’m proud of myself.
I did well today.
I earned my place.
I didn’t freeze or fail or fall apart.
That matters more than it should.
This life is nothing like the realtor’s office in Florida—the constant hum of air-conditioning, the polished desks, the clothes chosen to look harmless and pleasing.
Back when I believed that if I worked hard enough and smiled at the right moments, I’d be safe.
Back before Dan’s jealousy crept in and turned everything sour.
Before his anger made me doubt my instincts, my competence, the parts of myself that used to feel solid and sure.
I lost pieces of myself there.
Quietly. Gradually.
Until I barely noticed they were gone. ThatIwas gone.
Here, everything is stripped down to the basics.
Cold that bites.
