I had nothing now. No ranch. No horses. No Graham.
Just a bag, a plane ticket, and a cousin in New York who’d promised me a guest room and wouldn’t ask questions until I was ready to answer them.
It would have to be enough.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
GRAHAM
Two weeks.
That’s how long I’d been sitting in my mother’s kitchen staring at a loch that didn’t care.
The house hadn’t changed. Stone walls, low ceilings, the smell of peat and damp that I used to hate as a teenager and now couldn’t imagine living without. My mum had taken one look at my face when I walked through the door, made tea, and left me alone. She hadn’t asked why I was home. Hadn’t asked about Colorado. Hadn’t asked about the woman whose name I couldn’t say without my voice doing something I didn’t want it to do.
Scottish mothers. They know when to push and when to disappear.
I hadn’t touched the channel. Hadn’t answered emails. Hadn’t logged into anything with Fraser Kincaid’s name on it. My phone buzzed constantly, Dex, Jamie, Olivia, sponsors, my publicist, my agent, two podcast producers, and someone from Netflix who wanted to “explore opportunities.” The world wanted Fraser Kincaid, and Fraser Kincaid didn’t exist right now.
The only calls I made were to Rose.
Every day for the first week. Then twice a day. Her phone went straight to voicemail every time. Either she’d turned it off or she’d blocked me, and I couldn’t decide which was worse.
I kept calling anyway. Hung up before the beep. Just to hear the recording. Just to hear her voice say her own name in that clipped way she had, like even a voicemail greeting was something she needed to control.
You’ve reached Rose Gracen. Leave a message.
I never left one. What would I say? I’m sorry I brought the cameras. I’m sorry I brought the circus. I’m sorry my face was the last thing you saw before everything fell apart.
I’m sorry I wasn’t enough to make you let me stay.
Dex droveup from Edinburgh at the end of the second week.
He let himself in without knocking, a liberty he’d earned after ten years of keeping my life from falling apart, and found me in the same chair with the same view.
“You look like shite,” he said.
“Cheers.”
He sat across from me and opened his laptop on the table. The screen was filled with spreadsheets, email threads, and analytics dashboards. The machinery of a career I hadn’t touched in weeks.
“We need to talk about the channel,” he said.
“No we don’t.”
“Graham.” His voice was patient in the way that meant he’d rehearsed this. “The sponsors are restless. Red Bull wants a timeline. Patagonia wants a timeline. Everyone wants a timeline.”
“Tell them I’m on creative retreat.”
He turned the laptop toward me. “Jamie’s put together some pitch ideas. Low-effort stuff. A Q&A, a behind-the-scenes of previous trips, a ‘what’s in my gear bag’ video. Things you could film from this kitchen in an afternoon.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.” I pushed the laptop back toward him. “Every time I think about sitting in front of a camera and performing, I feel physically ill. Like my body has decided that being Fraser Kincaid is something it’s done doing.”
Dex studied me. “Is it?”
