“Absolutely not. For all I know, Colin stole a stranger’s phone and is trying to bait me.”
We finished the tequila, then wine, and before I knew it, Dani opened the vodka, because sobriety was for people who hadn’t been proposed to by their gaslighting ex that day. Eventually, we lay sprawled on the living room floor like two corpses who died of drama. The ceiling fan spun above us like a lazy helicopter blade.
“I’m never drinking again,” I mumbled.
“You say that every weekend,” Dani muttered.
A moment passed. Maybe three. The room swayed gently like a boat. Dani groaned beside me and flopped an arm across her forehead.
Then a knock sounded. Sharp. Firm. Authoritative.
Dani shot upright so fast she gasped for air. “Who the hell is knocking at what time even is it?”
I blinked at my phone. “Two in the morning.” Another knock came, louder, and my heartbeat tripped.
“That’s not Colin,” I whispered. “He does that stupid song knock.”
Dani crawled across the coffee table, sending thecontents flying, and moved toward the door like a woman with nothing left to lose.
“Dani, no,” I scrambled after her, half running, half stumbling as the room wobbled. She flung the door open.
A man stood in the doorway. Not a boy. Not Colin. Not anything that belonged in this building or this hour. He was tall and broad, built like a brick shit house. Sun-worn skin, dark hair slightly mussed like he’d run a hand through it in frustration, his shoulders blocking out the hallway light. Cowboy boots, jeans that hugged his thighs, looked worked in hugged his thighs, and a pearl snap plaid shirt rolled up with strong forearms.
“Did we die and go to heaven?” Dani whispered as she stared at the man.
“No,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice, steady and even, “I’m looking for Tessa Callahan.”
Dani pointed at me instantly. “She’s Tessa.”
“Traitor,” I mumbled under my breath.
He looked at me, really looked, and I felt it like heat under my ribs. His eyes swept over my messy hair, my flushed face, the emotional ruin of my night. He didn’t blink.
“I’m Wyatt Hargrove,” he said. His name sounded vaguely familiar, but there was no way I could unscramble my brain fast enough to figure out where I knew him from.
“I’ve been trying to contact you.”
Dani whispered, “Why does he have to sound so sexy?”
Wyatt’s jaw flexed as he turned his attention fully toward me with a gaze that pinned me to the spot. My throat dried instantly, and I wasn’t sure my legs still worked. Wyatt Hargrove stood in my doorway, boots planted, hat in hand like he was attending a funeral, broad shoulders blocking the hallway light, eyes fixed on me with an intensity I wasn’t built to handle, while my bloodstream consisted mostly of alcohol.
Everything about him was too much. Too tall. Too solid.Too real. Not like Colin, with his curated cologne and catalog-ready smile. Wyatt looked carved from Rockies, a lifetime of labor, the kind of man who didn’t complain about things, he’d just fix them.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My tongue felt like carpet. Wyatt waited, not shifting or fidgeting, simply watching me with the steady patience of a man bracing for impact.
He slid his hat from one hand to the other, a quiet, unconscious adjustment. Not nerves. Something heavier.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he repeated, his voice cutting through my drunken fog.
“My phone’s somewhere.” I gestured at the floor where it lay face down like a dead bug.
Wyatt glanced at it briefly, the judgment almost tangible, but he said nothing. His gaze returned to mine, steady and weighted. “Tessa. It’s important.”
My heartbeat tripped. “Important how?”
Silence stretched, thick and buzzing. I heard the fridge humming, the ceiling fan ticking, Dani breathing beside me.
“We should talk inside,” he said.
