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I stumbled out of The Hollow into the cool night air, gravel crunching under my boots as the world tilted like I was back on that Ferris wheel…or maybe the Gravitron, the one where they tell you to lean back against the wall and swear you’re fine right up until you’re throwing up. Sterling’s arm stayed firm around my waist, his body pressed close as he steered us toward his truck. The parking lot lights hummed overhead, throwing long shadows that swayed like they were as drunk as me, and everything felt loose, hilarious, and perfect.

“Easy, baby,” he rumbled, that low note of amusement in his voice cutting straight through the tequila fog and lighting up my nerves. “You’re swaying like a newborn colt.”

I snorted, jabbing a finger into his rock-hard chest. “A horse reference? That’s very rancher of you. I’m looking forward to you telling me I smell like fresh hay next.”

He laughed, and his hand slid lower until he was gripping my ass in a possessive squeeze. “You smell like tequila and mine. It happens to be the best fucking scent in the world.”

“Flatterer,” I slurred, grinning up at him as we weaved between parked trucks. “But seriously, if I fall, you have to catch me. It’s in the cowboy handbook. Page twelve. Thou shalt not let thy drunk girlfriend eat gravel.”

“Girlfriend, huh?” His eyes flashed as he stopped walking just to haul me closer, his free hand tipping my chin up. “Say that again.”

I blinked innocently, batting my lashes. “Thou shalt not⁠—”

“The other part.”

“Drunk?” I teased, biting my lip to stifle another laugh.

He growled and leaned down like he was about to kiss the sass right out of me. “Keep pushing, Sienna. See what happens when I get you home.”

“Promises, promises,” I sighed dramatically, right before my boot snagged on a rogue rock, and I lurched forward with a squeak that turned into a laugh.

Sterling’s grip yanked me back instantly, steadying me against his chest, but something fluttered from my pocket as I flailed, a small, folded square of paper that drifted down to the gravel.

My laughter died when I saw that my name was staring up at me from the outside, scrawled in thick, rushed ink.

Before Sterling could glance down and spot it, too, Ryder’s voice cut through the night, loud and teasing from across the lot. “Hayes! Remember when you used to be fun? If Jett doesn’t come back soon, I’m going to have to make old Harvey my wingman, and we both know that will be a disaster.”

Sterling grinned and turned toward him, thankfully missing the fact that I was freaking out.

It’s probably just a funny note from Hattie or a phone number a drunk tried to slip you, I told myself. But the tequila buzz faded as I bent down and snatched the paper off the gravel. I unfolded it fast, my fingers moving on instinct before my brain could catch up, and then my eyes were locking on the jagged scrawl inside.

Have you told him about Boston?

Boston.

Suddenly I was there again.

My bare feet slip on cold hardwood as he calls my name. A door slams somewhere behind me, and then I’m outside, the branches clawing at my skin.

No. He’s not here.

My gaze darted around the parking lot frantically. He can’t be. I still searched the deep shadows between trucks and along the fence line, though, as if someone was there, hiding, watching…waiting for me to crack.

There was no movement, though. No eyes were gleaming in the dark. There were just clusters of people laughing obliviously as they headed to their vehicles. The hairs on my neck stood up, a chill crawling down my spine like fingers tracing my skin as my thoughts darted to something else. Who in this town knows?

Who wrote this note and put it in my pocket tonight…

“You good, baby?” Sterling asked, staring at me concerned as I stood there falling apart. I hadn’t even realized he had finished with Ryder.

“Yeah,” I somehow managed, slapping on a bright, tipsy smile that felt paper-thin and fraudulent. “I’m focusing very hard on walking right now. Take me home, cowboy. Your drunk menace requires a bed.”

His smirk came back, and he bent down, sliding an arm under my knees and another around my back, lifting me clean off the ground. I gasped, instinctively clutching his shoulder as he cradled me against his chest. “Got you,” he murmured, already turning toward the truck.

I had stuffed the note into my pocket quickly before he could see, but it burned there as he settled me into the passenger seat. He buckled me in with that careful, obsessive touch as his fingers lingered on my thigh longer than necessary, as if he couldn’t help himself. I watched him numbly as he rounded the truck, climbed in, and fired up the engine. The low rumble filled the silence as we pulled out of the lot.

Staring out the window, I willed my mind to quiet as the passing lights blurred into streaks of gold and red. But it wouldn’t. Panic was clawing at my throat.

Someone knows. Someone here knows about Boston. How? No one followed me. No one could have. My gaze darted to the side mirror, half expecting eyes to be staring back from the shadows rushing past. My hands twisted in my lap, and I dug my nails into my palm, trying to calm myself down before I fell apart and ruined everything.