She wasn’t crying because of its beauty—although itwasbeautiful, filled with raw, aching devotion. She was crying because she understood, with complete certainty, that she’d never felt that way about anyone. Not even close.
She tried to remember a time when her heart had pounded like that, when love had made her feel weightless instead of burdened, when she’d wanted to give someone every fragile, vulnerable piece of herself without hesitation.
It had never happened. And the saddest part? It never would.
Maybe she was broken. Maybe there was something inside her wired wrong, something that made love feel foreign instead of natural. Or maybe she’d learned too early that loving someone—truly loving them—only ever led to disappointment.
She wiped her face roughly and forced herself to stand. She refused to sit there and wallow in self-pity, dissecting emotions she didn’t even fully understand. So she took a bath, letting the hot water burn away the remnants of her tears. Then she climbed into bed, pulling the covers over her head as if she could shut out the world.
Jamie woke to the unfamiliar scent of cedar and leather, the sheets tangled around her legs. For a disorienting moment she forgot where she was until she blinked up at the exposed wooden beams overhead and felt the firm mattress beneath her—not hers, Clayton’s.
She sat up slowly, pushing her hair from her face, her mind still reeling from yesterday’s bombshell. Her ex. With Matilda of all people.
The betrayal sat heavy in her chest, a dull ache that hadn’t faded overnight. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, inhaling deeply, willing herself to shake it off. But no matter how much she tried to push it aside, the truth gnawed at her.
She wasn’t ready to face the day. Or Clayton. Or the mess her life had become.
But she couldn’t hide forever.
She shoved back the covers and shivered. Her breath hung in the air. Damn, it was cold out. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to trap in what little warmth she had. Then she remembered the fireplace.
She knew nothing about lighting a fire, but she walked into the living room and found a bundle of wood, an iron poker thing, and long matches on the mantel.
How hard could it be?
She stacked a few pieces of wood on the rack and crumpled some newspaper underneath, like they did in the movies. She struck a match—she was a pro at lighting her father’s cigarettes—and watched as the paper ignited, the flames gradually taking shape.
Cuddling Poppy she sat on the couch, watching the fire burn and admiring her work. But moments later a cloud of smoke filled the room and fire alarms rang throughout the house.
“Oh my God!” She jumped to her feet, grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen, and waved it at the smoke alarm as if she were surrendering.
The smoke thickened, obscuring her view, so she opened the front door and let Poppy out. She hurried to the kitchen and grabbed her cell phone, but there was no signal.The landline!She picked up the receiver and dialed Clayton’s number, which was stuck to the fridge.
“Howdy,” he answered on the first ring.
“Clayton! I started a fire and there’s smoke in the house! The alarms are going off!”
“Did you open the flue?”
“The what?”
“The flue lets the smoke out.”
“I think you’re making that word up.”
“Be right there.”
A few minutes later Clayton’s truck rumbled up the driveway. The sun had barely risen, casting a pale golden light over the porch where Jamie stood, Poppy tucked against her chest.
She was coughing so hard she had to brace herself against the wooden railing, her knuckles white. Each breath sounded rough, strained, like it hurt to pull in air.
Clayton killed the engine before rolling down his window. “Jamie?” His voice cut through the quiet morning, sharp with worry.
She forced herself upright but another violent cough ripped through her, and Poppy let out a small, anxious whimper.
Clayton got out of his truck. “You sound like you’re about to hack up a lung.”
Jamie dragged in a shaky breath. “I’m fine.”
