Wells brushes pastme so fast I nearly spill my drink. His jaw is tight, his shoulders bunched, and when I call his name, he doesn’t break stride.
I shove my way after him.
People turn, watching with the careless curiosity small towns afford other people’s private disasters. A tableful of regulars fully cranes their necks. My cheeks burn.
“What the hell—Wells, wait!”
Outside, the snow is falling hard. It catches in his golden hair like confetti.
“Did something happen?” I call, hugging my coat tighter around me. “Talk to me—”
“Not here. Not in front of everyone.”
He pushes forward, and the stragglers outside part automatically. I follow because I’m reckless and worried and more afraid of losing him than of making a scene.
I swallow, heart banging. “Should we ... go back to the inn?”
He finally wheels on me, and the look on his face makes my stomach drop. “The inn you’re selling to Beau Langford? That fucking inn?”
I stop dead on the steps. “What? No—”
He’s already moving again, storming down the lane toward his truck, breath steaming. I stumble after him, the snow slick beneath my boots. My foot catches, and I go down hard on one knee.
“Shit—” He whirls, hands on me in an instant, gentler than his fury should allow. His palms wrap my arms, pulling me upright.
For one dizzy second, I see the Wells I’ve come to know—the one who steadies my ladder, who calls me contrarian with a smile, who notices when I’m tired before I say a word. But then he lets go, and the space between us freezes solid.
I force a laugh, brittle. “Clumsy, remember?”
He doesn’t answer. I think his silence might be worse than his shouting.
“Can I—” My breath fogs between us. “Can I come back with you? We can talk there.”
He jerks a nod, tight, and we climb into his truck. The cab is cold at first, the kind of cold that sinks into the bone. He starts the engine, the radio spilling static before it settles on a familiar song.
Fleetwood Mac’s “Silver Springs.”
Neither of us speaks the whole way home. Snow blurs the windshield, the wipers keeping time with my pulse. When we pull into the drive, he kills the engine, stock-still.
Finally, he turns to me. “You went behind my back,” he says, eyes dark. “Making deals with the devil. Beau? Really?”
I bark a laugh, sharp with nerves. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think? I get that you don’t like him, but—”
“Oh, so now you’re gonna defend the man?” He scrubs a hand through his hair, the longer strands on top falling damp into his eyes. “What, you have a thing for him or something? Is that why you’re doing this? I get it—he’s all about progress and wealth, and I’m stuck in the fucking past, right?”
For a second, I can’t even answer. My brain stalls. It lands like a slap.
Is that what he really thinks of me? That all of this—every late night at the inn, every letter I’ve opened, every inch I’ve fought to reclaim—could be boiled down to some schoolyard crush? Some shallow desire for forward momentum that erases everything I’ve loved?
“Are you serious right now?” I ask, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. “Is that actually what you think?”
He doesn’t reply. The silence says enough.
“Excuse me?” I snap. “You think I—no, you know what? Fuck you. And fuck this.”
I throw the door open, snow rushing in, and stumble out into the drive. He’s right behind me, boots crunching fast, his breath hot on my neck.
“Fuck me, yeah?” His voice slices through the night. “That’s all you’ve got after lying straight to my face?”
