April showers are supposed to bring May flowers.
At McCrae Lumber & Sawmill, they bring mud.
Not the cute little puddle kind either.No.I’m talking thick, boot-sucking, dignity-stealing mud that could probably swallow a small farm animal if you stood still long enough.
I’m ankle-deep in it.
My jeans are splattered halfway to the knee, my boots feel like they weigh twenty pounds each, and the damp air has turned my hair into a frizzy halo of betrayal around my head.
All because I’m trying to wrangle six cases of bottled water, cooking oil, and whatever other supplies Willow asked for off the delivery truck and into the Lunchroom.
I shove the hand truck again.
Nothing.
The wheels try to spin but just dig deeper in the mud, like they’re mocking me.
“Traitor,” I mutter.
Honestly, though, if I didn’t know better I’d swear the universe was testing me.
Because the one thing I absolutely do not want to think about right now—is J.T.Lawrence.And his proposal.
So naturally my brain keeps wandering back there like a dog returning to the same damn bone.
I grit my teeth and shove again.
Nope.
Still stuck.
“Fine,” I grumble.“We’re doing this the hard way.”
I glance up toward the Lunchroom windows.
They’re already fogged from the inside.
Which means Willow is in there cooking something.
Probably something amazing.
The scent drifting out through the cracked door makes my stomach rumble—fresh bread and herbs and something buttery that makes the whole muddy mess feel worth it.
I swear, I must bless the day Willow showed up in Woodhaven about a hundred times a day.
The woman is a miracle worker.
Bonafide.
Before her, the Lunchroom was basically just a sad little break space where the guys grabbed stale coffee and whatever they brought from home.
Now?Now it’s the heart of the whole damn mill.
Breakfast every morning.Lunch every afternoon.Free for our workers, which Thatcher insisted on once Willow started cooking.
Truckers stop by when they’re hauling loads through.Folks from town wander up the mountain just to see what she’s made that day.
No menu.No fuss.
