Page 69

It’s Aspen.

She’s standing in the kitchen of her house, arms reaching for me as the roof groans and splinters. My boots hold me in place as beams fall, and there’s nothing I can do as I hear the crack of it breaking loose.

Just like with Rory, I’m helpless.

Aspen’s scream cuts straight through me, raw and terrified.

Not for Rory and not for Aspen.

I jolt upright in bed, chest slick with sweat, breath sawing in and out of my lungs.

For a long minute, I sit there, palms pressed hard against my knees as I try to blink away the look in Aspen’s eyes when she sees the branch falling. But her face lingers—wide-eyed and screaming for me to save her.

No chance in hell I’ll sleep after that. I don’t even try.

I pull on a sweatshirt and head downstairs. The garage smells like grease and old leather, and the Jeep sitting in the middle, uncovered from the last time I worked on it, dulls the pounding in my ears.

Something to do.

Familiar metal and parts I can get my hands on and make sense of when everything else is so jumbled.

A few turns of the socket and the dream starts to loosen its grip on me. I lose myself in the monotony, going over every possibility, looking for a problem until I find one I can fix.

When I straighten, stretching out my aching muscles, the stars are giving way to the rising sun. But I keep tinkering until I see the glow of her bathroom light spilling from her window.

She’s awake.

She’s okay.

I lean back against Myrtle, exhaustion finally catching up as I stare at the window.

Waiting for a shadow that proves she’s whole and breathing and exactly where she’s supposed to be.

The thought of not seeing her before she goes into work is more than I can handle, and my pulse stumbles at the implications of that.

Before I can think better of it, I head inside.

In the kitchen, my hands are restless without an engine under my finger, so I fiddle with the complicated coffee machine on her counter.

“Is this a fucking spaceship or a coffee machine,” I mumble.

“Hotshot, what are you doing?”

The rough tenor of sleep in her voice knocks the wind out of me.

I turn toward the sound.

Aspen’s in the doorway, draped in another loose T-shirt that hits mid-thigh, and her dark hair is rumpled, falling over one shoulder. My throat goes dry.

Soft.

Sleepy.

Safe.

My eyes drag over her once . . . then again—slower this time.

Just to be sure.