And that haunted look in her eyes?
I don’t like it.
Not because it makes her less beautiful—if anything, it makes her more real—but because it tells me someone else put it there.
And I don’t know who did that to her yet.
But I already know one thing for damn sure—whoever it was?
They don’t get to touch her again.
They will never touch her here.Never again.
Last night, after she went inside her cabin, I stayed in my truck longer than necessary.
Longer than was reasonable.
Watching the faint movement of shadows behind the curtains as she undressed, moved around, prepared for sleep.
You can’t see through the curtains.
But silhouettes tell stories if you know how to read them.
And I have a damn good imagination.
I hated leaving her there alone.
Hated it enough that I checked the security feed twice before heading back to my own place.
The cameras run through a private cloud—mine alone unless something triggers the alarm.
In the years since we installed the system, it’s gone off twice.
Once because of Kelly. She forgot the code.
Willow has her own now.
Every morning, she enters it at the keypad by the lunchroom door.
That’s always her first stop. Coffee on. Soup started. Lunch prepped.
Then she heads to the office and handles the administrative work like she’s been doing it her whole life.
Whatever you call the role—secretary, admin, manager-in-training—she’s damn good at it.
And if her husky voice answering the phone doesn’t distract the hell out of me, then it’s just being near her and not being able to touch her.
Her body? Christ.
I haven’t seen all of it. Haven’t touched it yet.
But I think I’m addicted to it.
Today she’s wearing black leggings and a long-sleeve shirt that is absolutely not meant to be provocative.
High neckline. Plain cut. Practical as hell.
On her?
