Page 25 of The Route to You

A lump rose in his throat.

Granny had been like a second mother to them half the time, putting them all back together when they fell apart. As she’d gotten older, she’d needed more help. Elle—the only one of them who still lived in Nashville—mentioned it whenever Granny had come up in phone calls.

Granny didn’t ask for help though.

Didn’t want to be nuisance , she said.

And he hadn’t been listening.

He let himself be lulled by the idea that there would always be another tomorrow, another chance to say I love you , another call he’d return. Hadn’t let his brain wrap around the truth that, at some point in everyone’s life, there would be one final Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, or whatever, and then that would be it. No more sunrises and sunsets. No more goodbyes.

Enough. He couldn’t just lie here and drown. His toes were numb and Granny wouldn’t greet him at the pearly gates with enthusiasm if he died of hypothermia out of pure self-pity. She’d probably beat him with St. Peter’s book instead.

He curled his toes in his thick woolen socks, which had only helped marginally, then he peeled himself from the floor and shuffled toward the wood stove. The fire caught quickly, flames licking up, warmth beginning to spread through the cabin.

He crouched in front of it, trying to warm his hands, breathing in smoke and pine and the faint scent of . . . expensive shampoo that did not belong in Fort Paradise.

“You up already?” Sloan’s sleep-roughened voice came from behind him.

“Sort of.” Exhaustion burned his eyes. Truth was, he hadn’t slept well on the floor. Maybe it was his own damned fault for offering her the bed in the first place and, later, for rejecting her offer to share. Of course, if he hadn’t offered her the bed, he couldn’t live with himself.

The bed frame squeaked and he glanced back. Sloan swung her bare legs out of the sleeping bag and sat up, hair loose and messy, cheeks pink from warmth. She looked . . . different like this. Less affluent bride, more the girl he remembered stealing kisses from behind the bleachers.

His brain immediately tried to self-destruct.

He looked away.

“You going back to sleep?” she asked.

“Maybe. It’s still early.” He checked his watch. “Just after six thirty.”

She said nothing, but he heard her rise and cross toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut, and he exhaled.

He leaned over, dragging his camp stool closer to where he’d been squatting. Easing himself into the stool, he sat back in it and stretched his legs out. Maybe this would have been a better sleeping arrangement in the first place. Hell of a lot more comfortable anyway. You idiot.

The toilet flushed. A few moments later, the door opened. Sloan tiptoed back toward the bed and paused by the clothes he’d laid out on the floor as a makeshift bed. Lifting the parka, she brought it to him, then draped it over his legs.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, genuinely surprised.

She didn’t linger. Just hurried back to the bed and slid into the sleeping bag. “You couldn’t have been comfortable on the floor.”

“I wasn’t.”

She rolled toward him and propped her head on her elbow, studying him like she was trying to decide what version of him existed now. “I would have shared, you know.”

He raised a brow. “Call me old fashioned, but I was trying to be respectful.” That was a good enough excuse for turning her down.

After all, she was engaged to another man up to twenty-four hours ago. Strangely, though, she didn’t seem devastated that she’d left him at the altar.

None of your business, Winnick.

Her mouth twitched. “Respectful.” She tasted the word like she wasn’t sure it belonged in the same sentence as Kyle Winnick.

He gave her a mock-offended look. “You don’t think I’m respectful?”

“Oh, I have a very clear memory of what type of gentleman you were when we were younger.” Her voice stayed dry, but her eyes didn’t.

God.