Then she’d go back to Denver, and this strange, reckless little bubble in the mountains would collapse back into reality.
Except the thought landed hollow now.
Because somewhere between the silk, the hallway, and the look in Grant’s eyes when he lied to her, Sylva had already started feeling less like a visit and more like something she wasn’t ready to name.
Izzy climbed into bed and pulled the covers up, staring into the dark for a long time.
Every time she started to drift, she felt his hands again—steady, rough, possessive—like her body had already memorized him, whether she wanted it to or not.
13
Grant’s House — Morning
Sunlight slid under the guest room curtains in a thin, bright line across the floor.
Izzy woke with a dry mouth and a heart that immediately tried to sprint out of her.
For one disoriented second, she thought it was the wine.
Then last night hit.
Fast. Uninvited.
Narrow hallway. Lamp light. The wall at her back.
Grant—
Too close. Too solid.
His hands.
Not soft. Not careful.
Rough. Calloused. Used to reins and rope and work that didn’t come off at the end of the day.
She could still feel them.
At her waist.
Sliding up.
Holding her like he meant it.
Her stomach dropped.
“Oh no,” she muttered into the pillow.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
This was fine.
It was.
Grown adults were allowed one late-night, terrible-decision, absolutely-not-happening-again moment without it turning into a situation.
She was leaving in a week.
She had a gallery that was barely holding together.
