Page 9 of Wooded Bliss

Why is he looking at me like that? Is there something on my face? Maybe he’s annoyed because I’m here? It’s not like it was my choice, I’m just fulfilling an order.

The thought of him not wanting me here, for a delivery or any other reason, has my heart sinking. It makes no sense because I shouldn’t really care what Thatcher thinks.

But I do.

I really fucking do.

“A delivery?” His thick eyebrows pull together as he studies me.

I thrust the flowers in his direction, unsure if I should step closer to him or not, as if they are proof enough that what I’m saying is true. Does he think I’m lying about a delivery? Why would I? It makes no damn sense.

“Yes?” I cringe when it comes out as more of a question than a statement. Being this close to the only man I’ve ever had a crush on and seeing him after ten years is throwing me off. After clearing my throat, I try again, “Yes, a delivery. Of flowers.”

“Flowers?” I swear his eyebrows become one giant furry caterpillar with how hard he’s furrowing them right now. It would be cute if I wasn’t the one being interrogated. “I don’t remember there being a flower shop.”

The sigh I let out is big, long, and loud. “No offense, Thatcher,” his eyes widen when I say his name, “but you haven’t exactly been hanging around and taking in all the changes in Whispering Pines.”

He swallows hard and I try—and fail spectacularly—to not watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs with the movement. The pressure between us mounts with every breath we take.

I hate it because I don’t do well with tension. I don’t want to alienate a customer even though I have a feeling he won’t be ordering his own flowers anytime soon.

“Who sent me the flowers?” His voice is gruff, and I have to fight the shiver wanting to work its way up my spine.

There’s just something about his voice that does it for me. The fact that this is the first conversation we’ve ever had is a distant thought.

“I have no idea,” I admit while I try to give the flowers to him again.

“I can’t think of anyone who would send me flowers,” he spits out as his face twists with a slight look of disgust.

“Everyone should get flowers at least once in their life,” I soften my voice. “Aren’t they pretty?”

Thatcher’s eyes stop studying me like he’ll be tested on it later and he really takes in the flowers. Something softens in his eyes, and it makes my gut twist with jealousy even though I have no right to have such a reaction. Maybe he does know who sent him flowers; the thought has me dropping my chin and staring at my feet.

“They are pretty,” the husky note in his voice has me snapping my head up to find him not looking at the flowers at all.

No, he’s looking at me. My cheeks heat, and I’m sure I’m blushing up a storm.

Something shifts in Thatcher’s eyes and fill with hunger. No one has ever looked at me the way he’s looking at me right now.

The only problem is that he doesn’t seem happy about it considering the scowl on his face. What is up with this man?He’s a walking contradiction, one I’m not sure I’m capable of or want to unravel.

Or maybe I do. Desperately.

I don’t understand the pull between us. In the past, I told myself it was just a crush. For ten years that was enough for me to push it out of my mind and only pull those feelings out in the dark of night when the loneliness tried to pull me under or whenever I thought about dating someone.

Sure, I tried to talk myself into moving on from my childhood crush millions of times, but the thought of someone else holding my hand, kissing me, holding me, or being inside me for the first time made my skin crawl. I’m sure Thatcher wasn’t holding onto his virginity all these years, not with the way he looks, but that doesn’t have anything to do with me. At least it’s what I’ve been telling myself for years.

Pathetic.

I’m pathetic.

“What has you looking so sad, little one?” Thatcher’s growled question stretches across the distance between us and his voice isn’t quite his own.

When I look at him it’s as if someone else is peeking at me through his eyes. It makes no sense, but I feel it all the same.

I shake my head and plaster a fake as fuck smile on my face. “Nothing,” I dismiss his question with a breezy wave of my hand which feels foreign and out of place. “Anyway,” I hold the word out, “I hope you enjoy the flowers.”

When I shake the bouquet a little bit, he still doesn’t make a move to take it from me. I huff out a breath and give another shake with the same results.

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