In a city with a million people, Thatcher McCrae probably wouldn’t even notice me.
I’d be another face in the crowd.
Another pleasantly plump—I hate that description, but it’s nicer than fat—woman passing through his line of sight without leaving a mark.
But here?
Here, I exist.
I’m seen.
And maybe—just maybe—letting myself feel wanted for once isn’t a mistake.
Not if I stay aware.
Not if I stay me.
“Your thoughts are loud, Willow,” he rumbles, leaning just close enough that only I can hear him.
His voice is low, steady, threaded with something that makes my pulse stumble.
“We’ll get to all that. But not now.”
“Not now,” I repeat.
He nods.
“Eat your lunch.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
But I obey. I am suddenly very focused on my plate.
I take a breath, pick up my fork, and dig in. The soup is warm and comforting, exactly what I hoped it would be.
Thatcher watches me long enough to make sure I actually take a bite—really swallow it—before he finally sits and starts on his own meal.
It’s such a small thing.
Such a quiet kind of care.
And as I sit there—surrounded by noise and men and the scent of food and pine and warmth—I have to fight the urge to smile like a woman who’s just realized the impossible might not be impossible at all.
Like maybe, against all logic and reason, the mountain man across from me actually wants me back.
CHAPTER 15
THATCHER
On Friday, Willow made beef barley soup, roast beef sandwiches, and miniature cinnamon buns for dessert.
I ate four.
The buns, not the sandwiches—though I ate my fair share of those and the soup, too.
Those gooey little bites of deliciousness though?
They were soft and warm and sweet in a way that hit straight in the chest.
