That stupid, sacred alcove that still smells like pine and memory.
I curl into it. Let my head fall back.
Close my eyes “just for a minute.”
Just to breathe.
Just to stop shaking. Just to let the ache settle without drowning me.
The laughter fades.
The world softens.
My breath slows.
The window seat is still here.
Still mine.
Still ours.
And the last thing I register is the faint echo of Everett’s voice behind the bar—low, tense, unmistakably aware of me even when he pretends not to be—before everything—the ache, the noise, thehimof it all finally goes dark.
Chapter Three
Everett
Who needs sleep anyway?Stamp that motto on my fucking forehead. When I breathe through my mouth just to survive—I taste her. Specifically, the memory of the first time I made her come.
One minute I’m pacing the hallway, listening to the pipes tick and the storm-that-wasn’t rattling my windows because even the weather is mocking me at this point.
The next, I’m restlessly circling the lobby just off the great room. All because an hour ago, Sierra Barrett—patron saint of passive-aggressive warfare—smiled at me.
Just as sweet as hot cider.
Right before verbally drop-kicking my soul across the lodge in front of all of our friends and my own damn uncle.
She dropped history bombs like she was reading off a grocery list.
As if I don’t already choke on enough of our history every time I walk into this room.
It wasn’t what she said—it was how she looked at me.
First, like she could see right through me, all the way down to the part of me that still hasn’t learned how to get over her.
Then like I was demolishing history.
Yeah? Well maybe I want to demolish some history, Sierra.
I scrub a hand over my face.
Christ. One perfectly measured jab from her and my whole chest feels like she reached in and rearranged my organs to the damn rule of thirds.
This is pathetic.
I’m pathetic.
I drag in a breath, square my shoulders, and tell myself I’m not going to let one woman—one infuriating, impossible, stunning woman—knock me clean on my ass again.
