I can still feel the warmth of her back against my chest and the room still smells like her underneath the oil and iron.
I close my eyes and press my palms against the workbench, breathing until my heartbeat stops going crazy.
Could you not.
She started a sentence she couldn't finish.
Could you not stand so close? Could you not smell like that? Could you not exist in my space and remind me of the night I'm trying to forget?
I don't know which version she meant. Maybe all of them. Maybe none of them.
Maybe the truest version was similar to mine—could you not make me feel something when I've decided to feel nothing?
Whatever just happened in this room wasn't one-sided.
If she felt nothing, I could survive that. I could be the guy she hates and eventually forgets and we could orbit each other professionally for months, years, however long this lasts. I could bury what I feel and do my job and that would be enough.
But her breath caught. Her skin responded. She couldn't finish her sentence because the sentence was going to be honest, and she's not ready for honest yet.
And I have no right to want her honesty when I can't give it back.
I walk back to my cabin in the dark, the mountain air warm and still. The sky is absurd out here, with more stars than I've seen anywhere, the Milky Way smeared across the black as if someone spilled light.
From across the yard, I can see the glow of the fire pit where the crew gathers most evenings. Rourke's guitar drifts through the trees—something slow and Irish that makes the night feelolder than it is. I hear Ewan's laugh, Imogen's voice, the low murmur of people who belong to each other.
And I catch a glimpse of Kaylee. She's sitting on one of the log benches, knees drawn up, a mug in her hands. Imogen's beside her, talking, and Kaylee's face is lit by the fire, and she's laughing. It reaches her eyes and brings out the dimple and makes her whole body shake.
She's part of the fabric of this place in a way I'm only beginning to understand…the person who remembers every guest's name, who notices when someone's off, who holds the front end together with warmth and competence and a witty humor that’s surprising in the best way. She didn't stumble into this community. She built herself into it, plank by plank, and it holds her now the way a good structure holds weight—naturally, completely, and without even thinking about it.
I want that.
The thought is dangerous and I let myself have it anyway, just for a second, standing in the dark where nobody can see my face. I want what she has. I want to be part of something that lasts. I want a cabin with a light on and people who expect me to show up tomorrow.
I want Kaylee to laugh like that when I'm sitting beside her. Like she did at the bar.
She won't even look at you, man. And she shouldn't. You lied to her and now you're standing in the shadows watching her…some sad country song come to life. Go to bed. Stop wanting things you have no right to want after you burned that bridge.
I turn toward my cabin and go inside and close the door. I sit on the edge of the bed in the dark for a minute, boots still on, listening to the muffled guitar through the walls.
My phone is on the nightstand. Her number's still in it. I scroll to it sometimes. Not to call, just to look at it. Proof thatSaturday night happened. That she trusted me enough once to give me a piece of herself.
One week down.
I've earned a little ground with the crew, maybe. Enough to keep going at least.
But the ground between me and Kaylee hasn't moved an inch. She's protecting herself from me.
And I don’t blame her.
CHAPTER 4
KAYLEE
It’s been two weeks. That's how long I've been perfecting the art of not looking at Dean Archer.
I'd give myself a solid B-plus if it weren't for the fact thatnotlooking at someone requires knowing exactly where they are at all times, which means I've actually been hyper-aware of him every single second of every single day, and if that's not the most pathetic thing, I don't know what is.
And then there was the equipment shed.