“You don’t spare me by shutting me out. You don’t protect me by treating me like a stranger. I get that Beau—with his money and his big ideas and all his shiny solutions—looks like the easier choice. But locking me out in favor of a man who sees the past as something to edit instead of honor? That’s not protecting anyone.”
The tears come hot and fast, burning even as they freeze on my cheeks. “I wasn’t locking you out. I was—God, I don’t know what I was doing. Trying to line things up, to get everything neat, so when I finally told you I was staying, it would feel solid. Real. Not some emotional whim. But now . . .” My voice breaks. “Now I can’t even say it because you’ve already decided I’ll cut and run.”
His eyes close, his chest heaving. “I wanted to believe everything would work out. But the second I saw the emails—” He stops, swallows hard. “I saw history repeating itself. It’s what Beau does, Elsie. He takes and he takes. And I thought—I thought maybe he’d taken you, too.”
I flinch. “So little faith.”
“You didn’t give me much to work with other than telling me to wait.”
“I just wanted to be ready when the waiting was over!” My voice echoes against the inn’s clapboards. “You think this is easy for me? To want something so much and still be afraid of it? Tolove this house, to maybe love you, and to know that both things could break me if I choose wrong?”
He rakes a hand through his hair, snow scattering, his knuckles white. “I thought we could figure it all out. That we could stop circling and finally meet in the middle. But this ...” He gestures helplessly between us. “—this feels like it won’t work.”
Something caves inside me. “Don’t say that.”
“What else am I supposed to say?” His voice is hoarse, almost breaking. “That I’ll stand here waiting for you to decide whether I’m enough, whether this place is enough? Our town, our fucking home? You said you wanted to stay, but even that comes with a contingency. Should I keep giving and giving until you finally put me—us—ahead of your doubts?”
“You told me there was time.” My throat burns. “And I never asked you to give me everything.”
“Yes, you did,” he whispers. “When you let me hold you and then pushed me away. When you kissed me and said wait. When you let me believe.” He swallows, heavy, then, “Do what you need to do. Run again. Hide. God knows it’s what you do best.”
The wind moans through the trees. The shutters rattle behind us. A low groan pulses through the eaves, boards creaking in protest, the house bristling like it’s ready to splinter.
She’s angry with us.
And I can’t stand it anymore. The judgment, the noise. So, I do as I’m told; I turn and run—through the snow, up the porch steps, through the door that groans at my shove.
The house sighs around me, wooden bones shuddering, doors breathing open and shut. Its walls are closing in like it knows it’s losing both of us.
I take the stairs two at a time, vision blurred, my pulse ricocheting in my ears.
In my room, I collapse face-first onto the bed, wine-stained quilt catching my tears. Hemingway leaps up to join me, his warm body curling against my neck. His purr rattles steadily. I bury my face in his fur, sobbing until my chest aches and my throat goes raw.
It isn’t until hours later that I hear the front door close again.
Relief punches through me so hard it’s almost painful. I’d half convinced myself Wells would drive off into the dark, tires spitting snow, and refuse to return until I was gone.
That I’d lose him as surely as I lost her.
30
WELLS
After pacingthe kitchen for nearly an hour, I climb the narrow stairwell all the way to the third floor. My fist hovers at Elsie’s door, knuckles poised to knock, but something in the stillness stops me.
Through the thin wood, the boards creak as she shifts her weight. I picture her there, curled up on the quilt, eyes swollen from crying. It makes me sick. It makes me furious—with her, with myself, with the way we’ve gone and bloodied something that should have stayed soft.
I close my fist, press it to the frame. For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like if she opened the door. If she let me inside, let me hold her, let me explain the fury I can’t quite swallow.
But I can’t do it. Not tonight. My chest feels cracked wide, too raw, and if I step into that room now, I’ll either beg or break. She deserves steadier than that. The Wells Rourke who can shoulder her hurt without adding more.
So, I pinch my eyes shut, drag in a ragged breath, and step back. The house seems to sag with me, the stairs sighing under my weight as I descend.
She doesn’t let me off easy. Every board, every beam groans as I pass. A lamp in the parlor flickers when I cross into the front hall. The mantel ticks, loose nail singing in the draft. Even the chandelier gives a disapproving clink.
“I know,” I mutter. “You wanted me to go in there. You think I should’ve knocked.”
The house creaks above me, a whine that rattles the windowpanes.
