“I’ll see you at the meeting,” she said, her voice even.
And just like that, she was gone, leaving me alone with rumpled sheets that still smelled like sex and a hint of her perfume.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. I hit the gym, checked invoices, barked at a delivery driver who dropped a pallet in the wrong spot. None of it shook the image of her walking away, her shoulders tight and her eyes locked down like last night had been a lapse in judgement she’d already filed away.
By noon, the town buzz had shifted from the upcoming Founders’ Festival to something new.
Some podcaster had arrived.
I spotted him outside Morning Wood Coffee, headphones on, mic clipped to his collar. He had the polished look of someone who didn’t chop wood for heat or shovel his own driveway, and he talked with the kind of grin that made me want to knock it right off his face.
“So tell me about The Ex List,” he asked a couple of women on a bench. “Have you ever heard of Dane Thorne? They call him The Butterfly?—”
My spine stiffened.
The women giggled nervously. One said, “Well, he is… friendly,” like she was afraid to say more on the record.
The podcaster chuckled, his voice carrying. “Friendly, flighty, same thing. That’s what makes a good story. Hard Timber seems to be full of them.”
He saw me and his eyes lit up like he’d found fresh meat. “That’s him, isn’t it? Perfect timing. Dane, want to tell our listeners how you earned your wings?”
I stopped. Every instinct told me to keep walking. But my feet planted, shoulders squared. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“Nothing at all? Not even about how you’re planning a new project?” His mic angled toward me like it could draw out words I didn’t want to give. “People say you burn bright and then move on. Is this just the next flame?”
My jaw ached from holding back. “You’ll see,” I said, and walked past.
It wasn’t enough, but it was all I could do without punching him in the fucking face.
His smirk seemed to follow me inside. I kept an eye on him while Sabrina fixed my coffee and by the time I headed back outside, he was gone.
Back at the gym, everyone seemed to be talking about him… the podcaster who’d decided to set up in Hard Timber and investigate The Ex-List. And even though it wasn’t Friday, Thatcher sent out an emergency alert to meet for Trail Supper.
Thank fuck. I could use the company right now. Once a week, no matter what, the six of us met at the old ranger camp. No phones. No outsiders. Just a fire, some venison, whiskey, and the kind of honesty I couldn’t get anywhere else.
When closing time finally rolled around, I was ready to head up the mountain. Thatcher already had flames snapping high when I arrived. Holt sat on a stump with a beer while Harlan and Trace wrestled a cooler into place. Holt tossed a log like it weighed nothing. And Ridge leaned against a pine tree, arms folded, shadows sharp across his face.
“It’s about damn time,” Ridge called out as I stepped into the clearing. “We were wondering if Rowan kept you on a leash since you missed Friday night.”
“Shut it,” I said, dropping onto a log. “I was helping out a friend.” No one needed to know I’d skipped Trail Supper to teach Harvey how to dance.
Trace grinned. “So it’s true. Dane finally found someone immune to the grin.”
I grabbed the plate Thatcher handed me and dug into my dinner before I said something I’d regret.
“She already danced with him,” Holt said. “I saw it myself at the fundraiser. The guy’s slipping. He used to keep things private.”
The others laughed. I rolled my eyes, but a smile tugged anyway.
Then Ridge’s voice cut through, low and sharp. “You think that list is funny?”
The laughter stilled. Ridge pushed off the tree and stepped closer to the fire, his face a mask of shadow and tension. “It’s trash written by people who don’t know half the story. You don’t joke about that.”
Thatcher lifted a palm. “Nobody’s saying it’s right, Ridge.”
“Then quit feeding it.” His tone was sharper than flint striking stone. “Some of us didn’t get off easy with nicknames like The Butterfly.”
The silence stretched while the fire popped and sent sparks shooting toward the sky. Ridge swallowed hard from his flask, then turned away to pace around the clearing.
