Size nine.
My size.
I don’t even remember telling Thatcher what it was.
But he knew.
My fingers tremble as I push the tissue aside completely—and that’s when I seeit.
The detail.
The soft breath I take gets stuck in my throat.
The leather’s tooled, the burnished design etched into the sides in precise, swirling patterns that curl and dip along the seams like living things.
But they’re not just decorative swirls. I blink, leaning closer.
It’s awillow tree.
My namesake.
Its long, elegant branches etched with the gentlest curve—as if caught in the wind—and at the end of each one are dozens of tiny, delicate blossoms.
Soft pinks and muted greens and warm browns.
Painted, or dyed, or inked—I don’t even know.
It’s beautiful.
It’sme.
I suck in a breath, eyes stinging.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
This isn’t something you pick up at Walmart or even a department store.
This is custom.
Hand-done. Crafted.
They’re not just boots.
They’re art.
“You made these?” I ask, my voice barely there.
Grayson nods, casual as anything.
“Usually takes about a week to finish a pair like that. Waitlist’s long, but I owed Thatcher a favor.”
My throat tightens. I glance from the boots to him, trying to make sense of it.
“You made themfor mebecause he asked you to? But the willow tree?”
He shrugs like it’s obvious.
“Thatcher’s idea. Called in the favor last week. Told me you were new. Said your sneakers were garbage, and you deserved something better.” He grins. “Said make ’em perfect.”
