Page 37 of The Route to You

A split second later, Kyle recovered. He gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and started forward again. They reached for the door at the same time, and Sloan slipped outside before he could say anything in front of a salon full of women who would absolutely clock the tension and decide it was their business.

“Hey,” she said, aiming for confidence and landing somewhere near functional.

“Hey yourself.” His gaze flicked over her face again—too quick to be obvious, too careful to be accidental.

“You like it?” She gave a small pose that felt ridiculous and necessary at the same time.

His smile softened. “I thought I’d stepped into a time portal or something.” Then he swung the bag up and held it out. “But you need this to complete the look.”

She took the bag and peeked inside. Soft pink puffy fabric. “You got me a coat?”

“Yeah,” Kyle said, like this was normal behavior between people who weren’t even technically friends anymore. “I mean, we are in a ski resort town.” He pulled it out and held it up for her to slip into. “I don’t know if this is still your favorite color, probably not, but if you hate it, we can return it and get you something else.”

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn pink. When she was a teenager, probably. Most of the time these days she opted for gray and black. Sometimes a light beige. Safe colors. Background colors.

Colors that . . . hid my true self. My identity.

She took a deep breath.

“It’s perfect,” she said, and yanked the tags off like she was afraid he’d change his mind. “Thank you.”

“There are gloves in the bag, too. Just in case you didn’t bring those either.”

Heat prickled up Sloan’s neck. “I brought gloves.”

Kyle’s brow lifted. “I’m not judging.”

“Oh, shove it. You totally are.”

“I mean, I’m glad. I’m proud of you.”

She gave him a mock scowl. “Don’t get used to it.”

His lips curved in something that was almost a smile, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets as they started forward.

Vail was absurdly beautiful in the morning. Quintessentially, old European style. A dream in the winter.

Snow muffled the village the way velvet quieted a room. Morning had turned Vail into something crisp and ringing with sunlight as it spilled over the peaks and caught in the snow piled along the walkways, turning every edge and footprint into a scatter of white fire. In Lionshead Village square, the air smelled like cold and coffee and pine, clean enough to sting at the back of her throat when she breathed it in. An idyllic day for a quintessential winter wedding.

Their boots crunched over packed snow as they passed stone storefronts and timbered balconies, their windows bright with early warmth and quiet movement inside. The gondola wasn’t far from here and the lifts were already moving at a low, steady hum threading through the village, and skiers drifted past in easy clusters, laughing.

Evan’s favorite kind of day.

The day would have been perfect. Had they got married today. Ironically, she had zero doubt that she’d made the right decision.

The sky was a hard, stunning blue, the kind that made winter feel as elegant as Bernice had proclaimed it would be when they’d settled on the wedding date.

She gave Kyle a sidelong glance, but he’d gone silent, brow furrowed in deep thought, like he was holding an entire argument inside his skull.

Embarrassment burned Sloan’s cheeks—cold and shame mixing together—but something about walking through the town with him made her breathe a little easier, like the day was holding its breath, waiting to see what she would do with it.

“How did breakfast go?” she asked, mostly to break the silence. She’d grabbed a cup of oatmeal and a latte from the coffee shop across from the salon while waiting for it to open, but she kind of regretted not going with him for a full breakfast.

Kyle drew a deep breath, and his exhale made a pale cloud in front of them. Then he stopped and grabbed her hand, holding her back as they neared his rental car.

Sloan’s pulse jumped at the contact. Not in a romantic way. Definitely not. Just in a . . . why does my skin feel like that way.

“I told Davy about you.”