Color floods his cheeks. He ducks his head, fingers picking at the frayed strings of his hoodie.
“Dunno,” he says quietly. “Just… haven’t met the right person yet, I guess.”
The ambiguity of the wordpersoninstead ofwomanisn’t lost on me. My eyebrows flick up before I can stop them, a spark of something scarily similar to hope flickering in my chest.
“You’re smart,” I say, patting his shoulder gently. “Better to wait for the right person than rush into the wrong thing. I learned that the hard way with my marriage.”
His head snaps up, eyes wide. “You’re… married?”
“Divorced,” I correct, tapping my bare ring finger. “My ex and I split last year.”
His throat bobs. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
I wave it off. “Don’t be. She cheated on me with her coworker.”
His mouth twists into a grimace. “Shit, dude. That sucks.”
“Yeah.” I force a shrug, ignoring the sting in my chest. “But honestly? It was a blessing in disguise. If it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have moved to a different state and opened my own business. Everything happens for a reason, right?”
I believe it, too. I’m not religious, but I do believe in fate—some invisible current nudging us where we’re meant to go.
I know Mel’s already engaged. I found out during one of my late-night, whiskey-fueled Facebook stalking spirals. Looking back, it’s obvious her heart belonged to her lover long before we ever signed the divorce papers.
As much as it wrecked me, I’m grateful I walked in that day and saw the truth for myself. Because as brutal as it was, it saved me from loving someone who’d already given her heart to someone else.
Ashton nods slowly, his teeth catching on his bottom lip. Squinting in the moonlight, I can see the shape of his mouth, soft and uncertain. My gaze lingers too long. I can almost feel him—how his lips might fit against mine, how his slight stubble might scrape the corner of my jaw.
Christ. It’s been so long since I kissed a man. Long enough that I’ve almost forgotten how it feels.
“Look, I know we don’t know each other very well,” I say, resting a hand on his back. He goes rigid beneath my palm—hard muscle under soft cotton—but he doesn’t pull away. “But whatever you’re going through, you’ll get through it. You’re still young, right? Can’t be a day older than twenty?”
That earns me a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Fuck off. I’m twenty-four.”
I sigh dramatically. “Ah, to be young again.”
His face scrunches. “Wait, how old are you?”
“Thirty-one.”
He snorts. “Old man.”
I knock my fist gently against his shoulder. “Fuck you.”
“I’m kidding,” he says quickly, shaking his head as he picks at a hangnail, gaze glued to the ground. “You, uh… you look good for your age.”
My stomach does a summersault. Christ, that was cute. I love when he gets like this—all flustered and shy.
“Thanks, blondie,” I say with a playful wink.
He ducks his head even more, golden locks shielding his eyes. The distant sound of laughter drifts from the firepit, flames glowing bright orange through the dark.
My head tilts toward it. “Come on. It’s freezing over here. You should warm up by the fire.”
He watches me with cautious uncertainty as I stand and offer both hands. He stares at them a moment, blinking like he’s not sure he’s allowed to take them.
But then he does—slowly, hesitantly—his skin cool against mine, fingers curling tight. I pull him up before he can overthink it. The second he’s on his feet, he drops my hands and wipes his palms on his jeans like he’s trying to erase evidence.
“Attaboy,” I tease, nudging him toward the fire.
