Page 128 of The Route to You

But she did want to do this for the woman he’d hurt. For the person she’d never allowed herself to be while she was with him. For the time she’d lost—that he’d stolen from her.

Not because of him. Or any other man.

Because she wanted this. And she was the only person in her own way now.

“All right,” she said, meeting Delilah’s eyes. “I’ll do it.”

32

KYLE

The smell of something sweet and delicious roused Kyle from his sleep, and he blinked, trying to find his bearings. Instinctively, he reached for Sloan, only to find the spot in her bed beside him empty.

He frowned, the realization waking him further.

She’d texted she’d be out late tonight, but he hadn’t gone to bed until after midnight.

Getting up, he pulled on a pair of mesh shorts and stumbled toward the door, rubbing his eyes. He closed the dogs into the room not to wake them, then started down the hallway toward the kitchen, where he assumed the smell must have come from.

Sloan wasn’t there. There was a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies, though, cooling on a rack on the counter. The clock on the microwave read 2:23.

Why the hell is she baking at this hour?

Swiping a cookie from the rack, he turned, half expecting to find her asleep on the couch.

She didn’t appear to be there, either.

He glanced back down the hall. A thin strip of light came from the third, unused bedroom at the very end of the hall. Maybe she was in there?

Kyle started for it, taking a bite of the cookie.

God damn. Better than I remembered. Just a hint of cinnamon, soft and not overly sweet, the way chocolate chip cookies often were. He’d missed this flavor.

Reaching the bedroom, he set his hand on the knob. He turned it slowly, not wanting to startle her . . . and nearly dropped his cookie.

Sloan stood on a stool near the long—formerly blank—wall in the room, paint brush in hand. She held a paint palette in her right hand and a paintbrush in her left as she leaned forward, swirling blue paint onto a flower on the wall.

The wall had already been transformed. It wasn’t close to being finished, obviously, but a swirl of color swam before his eyes. Bright red flowers, green fern leaves, and sunflowers.

And a paint-splattered, gorgeous woman in the middle of all it, wearing the yellow sundress she’d worn to work. A white patch, taped on all four sides, was on her right bicep.

She swayed slightly, singing softly under her breath, and that’s when he realized she had earbuds in her ears, listening to music.

Was she drunk? High?

Kyle came closer, unsure if he should be amused or concerned. On the one hand, seeing her so clearly happy and free made him think he shouldn’t interfere and just leave her to her own devices. He had to be up early for a meeting with a potential sponsor anyway.

On the other— it’s two thirty in the morning, and she’s wearing a bandage. And was baking? Did she get hurt baking?

The evidence that she might be drunk was adding up.

He came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.

Letting out a cry, Sloan dropped her paint palette and cried out, “Oh fuck!”

His hand shot out to catch the palette and . . . he did, before bringing it back flat against his chest.

Sloan turned toward him, eyes wide as she yanked her earbuds out. “Oh my God, you scared me!”