“Anytime,” Atlas says easily. “And remind Emmett about horseshoes this week.”
Car doors slam one after another, the noise fading into the night until only the TV and the hum of the loft remain.
I groan quietly to myself.
Briar was right.
Apparently, in Timberline Peak, refusing friendship just turns it into a group project.
I’m going to end up playing horseshoes with a bunch of strangers on Monday whether I like it or not.
Staying a foot back from the window, where I won’t get caught, I strain, listening to the breeze and the crickets singing as foolish hope blooms in my chest while I try to make out the sound of Aspen’s footsteps.
She shuffles, and I swear they get a fraction closer before they’re gone.
I have no right to the disappointment that sits over my heart like a tree trunk, but that doesn’t make it any easier to breathe when her patio door slams shut.
I shove off the couch and head for the bathroom.
The toothbrush scrapes hard against my teeth, my gums protesting while I work through the restless energy buzzing beneath my skin.
I spit into the sink and brace both hands against the counter, lifting my head just enough to catch my reflection in the mirror.
Same tired eyes—same worn-down bastard staring back at me.
Earlier, walking in on Aspen and her friends, there’d been a second where I felt lighter than I have in years. All the shit I carried around was gone and I could just be.
But it’s back now.
Sleep isn’t happening tonight. Not with my head this wound up.
Still, I strip down to my boxer briefs, toss my clothes into the hamper, and head for the bedroom, hoping exhaustion eventually does what my brain won’t.
A noise outside jerks my attention toward the door and for one foolish second, I let myself believe it’s Aspen.
That hope is dangerous.
“You’re an idiot, Slate.” I drag my hand down my face. “Stick to what you’re good at.”
Being alone.
Another rap has me straightening.
Maybe I’m not imagining things.
I grab a pair of shorts and slide them over my hips before walking through the loft, fully expecting to find a family of raccoons digging through the garbage or the wind playing tricks on me as I yank the door open.
I blink hard, half convinced she’s a mirage sent to finish me off. Because I can’t think of a single reason Aspen would be standing at my door this late that doesn’t end badly for both of us.
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, hooded eyes dragging over my skin with enough heat to singe.
Fuck.
Every instinct I’ve got says to shut the door before I do something stupid.
“What are you doing here, Aspen?” With my restraint stretched to the limit, it comes out rougher than I intend.
I hate the way she blinks at my tone—want to take it back immediately. But I’m wound too tight to soften it now.
