I close my eyes, a tear slipping free. “Beau, I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can,” he says, rough. “Because I’m not done with you.”
My heart stutters.
“I left you a note,” I whisper.
“I read it,” he snaps. “And it’s bullshit.”
I flinch.
Then, quieter—like he’s fighting himself too—he adds, “You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”
My throat tightens. “Beau…”
“I’m coming,” he says. “Stay where you are.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, breathing hard.
Outside, the mountains loom in the distance—beautiful and merciless.
And for the first time since I got here, I realize the most dangerous thing on Wedding Cake Mountain isn’t the snow.
It’s the way Beau Wilder makes me want to believe in forever.
EIGHT
BEAU
I don’t remember the drive off Wedding Cake Mountain.
I remember the moment Ryder told me Mila left.
I remember the way my chest went hollow like something vital got ripped out.
And I remember reading her note—three lines of fear dressed up like kindness—then feeling something in me go hard and hot anddone.
Done letting people I want walk away because I’m scared.
Done letting my past write the rules.
Done pretending I’m built for solitude when my whole body just proved I’m built forher.
I get to the gas station on the edge of Timber Creek fast enough that common sense should probably pull me over.
Her SUV is there.
Crooked in the spot, like she parked in a hurry. Like she didn’t care if she took up two spaces because the only thing she was trying to fit into was escape.
I kill the engine and step out into the cold.
The bell over the gas station door jingles when I push inside.
Mila is by the coffee station—hands wrapped around a paper cup like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Hair a mess. Eyes red. Her cheeks still flushed like she’s been crying or fighting or both.
She looks up when she hears the door, and the second our eyes lock, she goes still.
