Humiliation.
Six years.
Six years of ninety-hour weeks, wealthy patrons, gallery openings, artists she’d fought for with her own reputation—and one bloodless investor meeting had erased all of it in a ten-minute phone call.
A sharp sound hitched loose from her before she could stop it.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Fired.”
What was she supposed to do now?
Denver suddenly felt fifteen hundred miles away.
Not home. Not safe. Just… gone.
And somehow that hurt even worse after last night.
Because for one reckless, impossible night, Grant Scott had made this mountain feel more like home than her condo ever had.
This morning, he’d looked her straight in the face and treated it like a mistake.
A strangled sound tore from her throat.
Izzy pressed both hands hard against her eyes, trying to force herself back together before anyone saw.
Inside the house, Grant looked up sharply from the kitchen sink.
At first, all he heard was the wind through the open screen door.
Then—a muffled sob.
Grant froze.
Outside, a shaking sob tore out of Izzy, and she wrapped both arms around herself as panic crashed hard through her chest.
No job. No plan. No idea what came next. She missed having one place in the world that felt solid, familiar, and hers. And God, she missed Caitlin being in Denver.
Another broken breath escaped before she could stop it.
Grant stared toward the back porch, jaw tightening.
Something inside him twisted at the sound.
Real pain. And suddenly, he hated himself a little for this morning.
Outside, Izzy swiped angrily at her face and forced herself upright.
No. Absolutely not.
She was not going to fall apart on a mountain overlook over Marcus Halpern and one emotionally constipated cowboy.
She sucked in one last shaky breath and walked toward the house.
The screen door slammed hard enough to rattle the kitchen windows.
Grant looked up immediately.
Izzy crossed through the living room fast, sunglasses still on, one arm wrapped tight around herself like she was physically holding something together.
