The sun’s high and relentless, pouring down on our backs like punishment as we wrestle joists into place on Slate’s new deck.
“Bet you regret volunteering now,” Finn mutters, wiping sweat off his brow.
“Didn’t realize ‘helping with the deck’ meant full-scale construction,” I grunt, sliding the beam into place and bracing it while Slate drills.
“Welcome to Devil’s Peak labor, city boy,” Grady chimes in from the edge, holding a tray of screws like it’s a cocktail platter. Lazy bastard. They know it gets under my skin when they call me city boy–sure, I was raised in Boulder, but I’ve been on Devil’s Peak for all my adult life–since I left the military on leave the first time and needed peace and quiet to recover from the hell I saw in the desert. I think of the one that got away–Kat–the woman who wrote me letters that helped get me through the hard times when I was deployed. We’d been childhood pen pals off and on for years, and when she found out I’d enlisted in the military, she started writing me weekly–she doesn't know it–butwaiting on those letters, the love and kindness written in those sentences, gave me something to live for.
The summer I came to Devil’s Peak on leave, she came out here for Spring Break. We met at The Devil’s Brew, we kissed, we made love, and then she vanished from my life as quickly as she’d come. I went back to the desert for another deployment and we lost touch. Her letters just stopped arriving one day. No explanation, no goodbye, just gone. My heart still hurts at the thought. She doesn’t know it, but she was my first broken heart. She’ll also be my last because I’ve refused to let anyone in since.
“I’m not the one who suggested cedar planks.” I finally grunt, pulling myself back into the present with the guys. “You want clean lines and weather-resistance, you build it your damn self,” I shoot back.
Slate just laughs, eyes crinkling behind his sunglasses. “You act like you don’t love every second of it.”
I don’t answer. He’s not wrong.
The sound of drills, the weight of real work in your hands, the mountain air burning in your lungs—it’s the kind of therapy I crave. It grounds you. Helps you forget what’s behind you, even if just for a minute.
“You gettin’ nervous yet?” Finn asks Slate, leaning back on the cooler.
“About what?”
“The wedding. Emma. Tying the knot with the best thing to ever happen to you.”
Slate doesn’t hesitate. “Nope.”
Grady whistles low. “Damn. Confident. Didn’t even flinch.”
Slate shrugs. “What’s there to flinch about? She’s it for me. I knew it the second I met her. Wasn’t even about how she looked—though, Jesus, that didn’t hurt. But it was the way I felt around her. Like I could breathe again. Like I didn’t have to flinch when the world moved too fast.”
We go quiet.
All of us get it.
There’s a kind of peace some women carry with them. Emma’s that for Slate.
He clears his throat and gives a weak grin. “Didn’t mean to get all Hallmark on you.”
“Don’t worry,” Grady deadpans. “I’m still gonna mock you for it.”
Slate smirks. “Please do. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”
“Yeah, well,” Grady adds, “you’re not the only one playing house lately.”
My head snaps up.
“Jack over there’s gone and got himself a live-in lady,” he drawls, squinting at me like he’s waiting for the swing.
Finn grins. “Yeah, I heard about that. Mail-order bride, right?”
“Not a mail-order bride,” I snap. I guess technically she is, but she’s so muchmorethan that.
Grady holds up his hands. “Hey, no judgment. I mean, I’d mail-order a woman too if she looked likethat.”
Finn whistles. “What’s her name again? Holly?”
“Don’t,” I growl.
“Touchy,” Grady says, then softens a little. “We’re just messing with you, man. But you’re not fooling anyone. You volunteered for this deck so you could avoid going home and dealing with your feelings.”
