She ran a hand over the quilt.
“This is ridiculous,” she said softly.
She unpacked enough to survive the night—makeup bag, charger, her skin care, a tiny charcoal sleep set that always seemed to find its way into her suitcase.
She carried the last of it into the bathroom, flipped on the light, and smiled despite herself.
Claw-foot tub. White beadboard. Tiny hex tile floor.
The shower took a minute to warm, but once it did, the hot water washed away the airport, the gallery, the long drive,and a stubborn layer of Denver she hadn’t realized she was still carrying.
By the time she stepped out, her hair damp and skin flushed pink from the hot water, she felt halfway human again.
She dried off, worked lotion into her legs and arms, brushed out her hair, and stood staring at the small pile of clothes she’d tossed onto the chair.
Then she pulled on a soft charcoal camisole and a pair of tiny sleep shorts she’d packed without thinking—thin cotton, worn soft from too many washes, the kind of thing meant for sleeping alone.
Grant’s face flashed across her mind anyway.
The way he’d filled the cottage doorway. Broad shoulders. Scowl. Dust and denim and those impossible blue eyes looking at her like she was both a problem and a distraction.
Izzy rolled her eyes at herself.
Absolutely not.
This was not about Grant Scott.
She tugged the camisole down and glanced toward the mirror.
Bare legs. Damp dark hair. Flushed skin from the shower.
Human again.
“Well,” she muttered to her reflection, “if I’m going to have a breakdown in the mountains, at least I’m comfortable.”
Something in her loosened at the sight of herself looking less polished. Less staged. More real than she’d felt in weeks.
She switched off the overhead light and padded back into the bedroom barefoot, leaving only the bedside lamp glowing warm and low.
Her phone lay on the nightstand, dark screen reflecting the room back at her. She pictured Caitlin’s name lighting it up—some late-night meme, a weather report from Sylva, a sleepy selfie from the courthouse steps.
God, she missed her.
Texts and calls weren’t the same as having Caitlin in the room—laughing, rolling her eyes, stealing her fries, telling her when she was being dramatic and when she wasn’t being nearly dramatic enough. Denver hadn’t felt right since she left; the gallery had given Izzy something to pour herself into, so she didn’t have to look directly at the empty spaces.
In a couple of days, Caitlin would walk into a room and see her standing there.
For once, the surprise waiting for her best friend would be a good one.
The thought eased something tight and unseen inside her.
Outside the windows, the farm had gone dark in layers.
Not city dark.
Real dark.
It should’ve felt lonely.
