Joey eventually tells us to save it for after dinner. Tex winks at Sedona as if he isn’t the biggest menace on the ranch. Seth asks her what she’s making tonight, and she tells him I’ll help her cook.
I groan.
She grins up at me. “You’re my fiancé now. You have to help me.”
We laugh, leaning into each other, the ring shining on her hand like it’s always belonged there.
The rest of the world can wait. She said yes.
And for the first time in years, everything in my life feels like it’s in the right place.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sedona
FIVE YEARS LATER
I’m tossinga sweater into my suitcase when I hear the front door unlock.
The click echoes through the apartment. When I step into the living room, I find Cole—perfectly pressed suit, blond hair pushed back from his forehead, tie already loosened.
“Hey, babe,” he says as he walks toward me, leaning in to kiss me. His arms wrap around me.
I let him hold me because I need a whiff of his scent to comfort me, but behind the starch of his shirt and his warmth is the smell of Le Labo Patchouli 24. He always smells like that—smoky, heavy patchouli with a synthetic twist.
Not him. Not the Beta scent he’s buried under layers of cologne because all the other lawyers at his firm do it too.
I’ve told him more than once that I prefer his natural scent. There’s a calmness to it, a kind of grounding warmth.
He always laughs it off, saying masking is part of the culture in his office, like it’s some kind of badge of honor. So I let it go.
I let a lot of things go.
He lifts my chin and kisses me again. “How’re you holding up?”
“Not great,” I say. My voice comes out tight.
“You know you don’t have to go,” he says.
A flash of heat snaps through me. We’ve been through this three times in the last forty-eight hours, and each round makes me feel less like he’s comforting me and more like he’s trying to talk me out of something vital.
“He was still my father,” I say.
“I know.” He drops onto the sofa, unbuttoning his cuffs as if he’s settling in for the evening instead of preparing for a flight. “I’m just saying?—”
But the thought cuts off in my mind because I see something I should’ve noticed the moment he walked in: There’s no suitcase. No duffel bag. No garment bag. Nothing.
My stomach plummets. “Where are your clothes?”
He hesitates. That little lean forward he does when he’s about to deliver bad news in a gentle tone, like he’s preparing to walk me through a disappointing verdict.
And I already know.
“You’re not coming with me,” I say, the words scraping out of my throat.
“Babe, it’s complicated?—”
“It’s my father’s funeral.” I don’t shout often, but it rips out of me before I can stop it.
