"I know." He stops just out of reach, and I can feel the heat coming off him, smell the sweat and dust and something underneath that's just him. "Your name came through on the guest list three days ago. Corporate wellness program. I've been waiting to see if you'd actually show up."
"Waiting?" The word barely makes it out.
His mouth curves. Not quite a smile. "I thought I'd moved on. Then I saw your name and realized I'd been lying to myself the whole time."
My hands shake. I press them against my thighs, but he sees. His eyes track the movement, and something in his expression softens.
"You still work here?" I manage.
"Worked my way up to the wellness director. I run the corporate program." He pauses. "Which means for your stay, I'm your guide."
Oh God. The whole time. With him. In this place where I fell apart the first time and apparently came back to finish the job.
"Cash, I can't—" I start backing up. My flat sinks into a divot in the gravel, and I stumble. He moves fast, hand shooting out to steady my elbow. The contact is electric. His palm is warm, and my body remembers this. Remembers him. Every nerve ending lights up like it's been waiting for this exact touch.
I pull away. He lets me go, hands dropping to his sides.
"This is a bad idea," I say. My voice is shaking now. "I should request someone else. I should—"
"Don’t." The command is a soft, unwavering weight in the air. He makes no move to block my path, keeping his posture open and his gaze locked on mine. "Please," he adds, the vulnerability cutting deeper than any demand. "Just stay."
I stop. Not because he asked. Because my body won't let me leave. Because years of running just hit a wall, and the wall is him.
"I don't know what you want from me," I whisper.
He's quiet. The sun beats down. A crow calls from somewhere in the distance. The horse in the pen snorts and paws the ground.
Then he says, "Six a.m. tomorrow. I'll bring coffee." His eyes hold mine. "Black, splash of milk. Same as before."
My throat closes. "That's not fair."
"No," he agrees. "It's not. But it's true." He takes one step back, giving me space I don't want and desperately need all at once. "I remember everything, Sloane. Every conversation. Every sunrise. Every promise you made that you didn't keep."
The words sit heavily in my stomach. I want to argue. Want to tell him he's insane, that memories lie and people change and whatever we had is gone. But I can't. Because I remember too. The way he laughed. The way his hands felt in my hair. The wayhe looked at me like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life.
"Where do I go?" The question comes out small.
He gestures toward a path that winds past the barn. "Lodge is that way. Lucinda will get you checked in, show you to your cabin." He pauses. "Cabin 5. Best sunrise view on the property."
Cabin 5. The same cabin. Of course it is.
"Six a.m.," he says again. "Don't be late."
I nod. I can't speak. Can't do anything except turn and walk toward the lodge on shaking legs, my suitcase wheels catching on every rock and rut. I don't look back. If I look back, I'll break.
The lodge door opens before I reach it. A woman steps out, sixty-something, long black hair streaked with silver, wearing turquoise jewelry that catches the light.
"You must be Sloane." She walks down the steps to meet me, and her smile is warm but assessing. "I'm Lucinda. Welcome to Wild Vista Ranch." She takes my suitcase before I can protest. "Come on. Let's get you settled."
I follow her inside. The lodge is cool and dim after the brightness outside, all exposed beams and leather furniture and windows that frame the hills like paintings. She leads me to the front desk and pulls out a folder.
"You're in Cabin 5. Private, quiet, about two hundred yards past the barn." She slides a key across the desk. "Daily activities start at six a.m. Cash will be your guide. Breakfast is in here at seven-thirty, dinner at six. Wellness activities throughout the day. Everything's mandatory."
Cabin 5. The number sits heavily in my memory, and I have to press my palm to the desk to keep standing. They gave me the same cabin. The universe has a sick sense of humor, or maybe Lucinda knows more than she's letting on. Either way, I'm not asking. Can't ask without admitting I remember, and I'm not ready to hand over that vulnerability.
I take the key. The brass is warm from her palm, worn smooth by seventeen years of guests who came and left and forgot this place existed.
I didn't forget. Couldn't, even if I tried.
