6
ROWAN
Portland feels wrong.
My apartment is exactly how I left it. Clean, organized, impersonal. A place to sleep between assignments, not a place to live. I've been back for two days, and every morning I wake up reaching for a body that isn't there.
I make coffee in my single-serve machine. It tastes like nothing compared to the stuff from Ev's ancient drip pot. I sit at my kitchen table and stare at the wall and wonder how I became the kind of woman who ruins her career for a man she's known less than a week.
My phone rings. Greg's number.
I consider not answering. Let it go to voicemail. Delay the inevitable disciplinary meeting where he tells me I'm being reassigned to desk duty or, worse, terminated for ethical violations.
But I've never been a coward. I answer.
"Rowan." His voice is clipped. Professional. "Peterson finished his review."
My stomach tightens. "And?"
A long pause. "Your findings were accurate."
I sit up straighter. "What?"
"Every record, every permit, every environmental assessment. Cole Timber is running one of the cleanest operations in the state." Another pause. "Peterson's words, not mine. He said if he didn't know better, he'd think it was a model operation set up specifically to demonstrate best practices."
I don't know what to say. Relief floods through me, followed immediately by a severe bout of vindication.
"I told you," I manage.
"You did." Greg sighs. "Rowan, I owe you an apology. I jumped to conclusions. The situation looked compromised, and I?—"
"You did your job." The words taste bitter, but they're true. "You saw red flags and you acted on them."
"That doesn't make it right."
"No. But I understand."
Silence. Then: "Take a few days. When you come back, we'll talk about your next assignment. Something tells me you'll want to stay away from logging operations for a while."
I almost laugh. "You might be right."
We hang up. I set my phone on the table and stare at it.
Peterson confirmed everything. My reputation is intact. My career is salvageable. I can go back to the office and pretend none of this ever happened.
But the relief I expected doesn't come. Because none of it matters if I'm sitting alone in this sterile apartment, drinking bad coffee, missing a man I walked away from.
I grab my keys.
The drive takes six hours.I don't stop except for gas. The sun is setting when I finally turn onto the dirt road leading to the Cole Timber operation, the mountains painted orange and gold against the evening sky.
His truck is parked outside the cabin. Smoke curls from the chimney. I pull up beside him and kill the engine.
For a moment, I just sit there. Trying to find the words. Trying to figure out what I'm going to say when he opens that door.
It doesn't matter. He's already on the porch.
Ev stands with his arms crossed, watching me through the windshield. He's wearing the same flannel from the day we met. Sawdust on his jeans. Exhaustion carved into the lines of his face.
