“I haven’t seen much of it,” I say honestly. “Mostly just work.”
I sense it before I see it—the shift in the room.
Thatcher is already moving.
He comes back with a tray loaded with a little of everything and sets it down in front of me.
His jaw is tight. His eyes flick to Mack. He doesn’t blink.
Mack swallows.
“H-hi, boss.”
“Better get in line before it’s all gone, son,” Thatcher says, voice low and edged.
Mack nods fast and makes himself scarce.
I bite the inside of my cheek, pretending very hard not to notice.
Mack squeaks—squeaks—and scurries off.
I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
Thatcher sets an identical tray in the seat Mack was clearly angling for, then straightens like nothing unusual happened.
Like he didn’t just brand himself onto my thoughts.
I stare at the food. At the soup. The rolls. The apple cobbler cooling in a tiny disposable bowl.
Then, I look at my hands, which are still faintly trembling.
I have no idea what’s happening.
My life is complicated.
Messy, fragile in places I don’t like to look at too closely.
This is the worst possible time for whatever this is.
Except—there’s no denying it anymore.
He kissed me.
I didn’t imagine the long looks and yearning.
Or the way his voice drops when he says my name.
Or that nickname he calls me—Baby Girl—which should make me roll my eyes but instead makes something soft and dangerous unfurl inside me.
I tell myself this has to be proximity.
Geography.
Limited options.
I mean—this is a literal mountain town.
As far as I can tell, the only other woman who comes around regularly is his sister.
