She doesn’t respond as she tilts her head, studying me like she’s trying to read my mind.
I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Are you coming home with me, Mais?” I let the nickname slip naturally, without thinking.
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and I swear I see that tough exterior finally giving way.
“Yeah,” she says.
I give a small nod, allowing a subtle relief to settle over me as we step out into the cold mountain air biting at my cheeks. I lead the way to where we parked the truck earlier, the soft glow of the lodge fading behind us. Even if the night has been messy, complicated, and full of tension, right now, I’ve got her by my side. And for tonight, knowing she’s with me instead of Jeff, is enough.
EIGHT
MAISY
I’ve never noticedhow winding the road that leads to the chalet is. Every bend feels too sudden to be safe, but Sterling drives carefully while the snow falls around us. I sit with my body facing the window, pretending to focus on the snowy trees even though they’re barely visible. Really, I’m just trying not to sway in my seat and give away how tipsy I feel.
I’m not drunk, just warm in the face, a little floaty, my thoughts slower than normal, and I’ve been concentrating on breathing evenly so Sterling doesn’t notice.
He hasn’t said a word since we left the lodge. His jaw flexes every so often as if he’s biting back everything he wants to say. I almost tell him to spit it out, but he beats me to it.
“Why’d you start drinking?” His eyes don’t leave the road. “You used to hate that stuff.”
My stomach knots, because of all the questions he could’ve asked, of course it had to be that one.
I force a laugh, brittle around the edges. “That’s what you’ve been brooding over this whole drive?”
His hand tightens on the steering wheel. “Maisy.” All he says is my name, but it’s enough to send a shiver down my spine.
I glance out the window again, the trees whipping past. “People change,” I say quietly. “Things change.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I bite my lip, heat prickling behind my eyes. He doesn’t get it—he wasn’t here. He didn’t see the mess I was after the accident. After us. He got to run away to his surf town while I was stuck here trying to pick up the pieces of myself.
I swallow hard, throat tight. “Maybe I just needed something to take the edge off,” I murmur, more to the glass than to him.
The only sound is the hum of the engine for a few minutes before he speaks. “You don’t need that,” he says softly.
The words slam into me, both comforting and infuriating, because they sound so much like the old Sterling—the one who always thought he could fix me, even when I didn’t want fixing.
I turn toward him, my voice more aggressive than I mean it to be. “You don’t get to tell me what I need.”
His jaw works, but he keeps his eyes on the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel, and the silence returns heavier than before.
By the time Sterling pulls into the driveway of the chalet, the silence between us is so thick I can barely breathe. The headlights sweep over the wooden beams and dark windows, snow piled high along the edges of the porch.
He kills the engine, the hum dying into stillness, and for a long moment neither of us moves. My seatbelt presses against my chest like a restraint, keeping me in place when every nerve in me feels strung tight.
Sterling finally unclips his belt, then glances at me. “Do you need help to get inside?”
The question is so simple, but the way his eyes search mine makes it feel like something else entirely. Like he’s peeling me open, waiting for me to admit what I don’t want to say.
That I need him.
I shake my head too quickly, fumbling with my buckle. “I’m fine.”
I push the door open, cold air rushing in, but his hand comes down lightly on my arm before I can get out. Not hard, or possessive, but enough to make my heart pound.
“Maisy.” He says my name like a warning and a plea all at once.
