He'd been so stupid. So fucking stupid to think this time would be different. To think Riley had changed. To think he was enough to make her want to stay.
She'd promised she'd be back. Looked him in the eye this morning and sworn she wouldn't let work get in the way.
And then she'd done exactly that.
Grant's hands tightened on the sandpaper he was using, his jaw clenched so hard it ached.
This was what she did. Made promises she couldn't keep. Let work consume everything. Chose her career over the people who cared about her.
Over him.
He'd just watched her do it again.
The only difference was this time, he'd known better. This time, he'd seen it coming.
And it hurt just as much anyway.
He'd just started sanding down the rough edge of the door frame when he heard it.
The crunch of tires on gravel.
Grant's hands stilled. His heart stopped.
A car door opened. Closed.
Footsteps across the yard. Hesitant. Getting closer.
Grant set down the sandpaper, his pulse hammering, his chest tight.
He knew, without looking, without checking, exactly who was walking toward the barn.
The footsteps stopped at the entrance.
A long pause. Silence except for the wind.
Then the barn door creaked open wider.
Grant turned.
And there she was.
TWENTY-FOUR
Riley
Grant stood with his back to the workbench, a piece of sandpaper still in his hand, his shoulders rigid. The barn light cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look older, harder, nothing like the man who'd kissed her goodbye this morning.
Riley couldn't find her voice.
"Hi," she finally managed.
Grant didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at her with an expression she couldn't read—something between hurt and anger and exhaustion.
"Can we talk?" Riley took a step closer, then stopped when Grant's jaw tightened. "Please?"
"What's there to talk about?" His voice was flat. Cold in a way she'd never heard from him before.
"Grant, I'm so sorry. I tried?—"
