“I water her plants,” she says slowly. “What do you do for her?”
Nothing. Nothing at all.
The answer lands harder than it should.
Briar clearly doesn’t come with an off switch, and somehow, she remains completely unfazed by my shit.
She hooks a thumb toward the house.
“Girl can keep a human alive on fumes . . .” Her grin fades just enough to tell me she’s serious now. “But she takes care of herself about as well as she takes care of her plants.”
I glance at the watering can.
Then back at her.
“So . . . not at all.”
Her mouth quirks. “Now you’re catching on.”
And just like that, I’m standing in Aspen’s driveway, getting life advice from a marginally unhinged florist with zero respect for personal boundaries.
Ten minutes later, Briar’s somehow got me sitting on Aspen’s porch with a bottle of water in my hand while she grills me like I’m up for parole.
By the time she’s run out of steam, or interest, she’s asked me enough invasive questions to write a biography, invited me to horseshoes withthe guys, and informed me—not asked—that she’ll be getting my number from Aspen so Denver can add me to the group chat.
Apparently, in Timberline Peak, you don’t get to pick your friends, they are assigned.
I watch Briar head next door with her watering can swinging at her side, then let myself into Aspen’s house.
The silence is unbearable.
For a guy who built his life around solitude, it’s unsettling how fast I’ve gotten used to her being in it.
And that can’t happen.
Because I know better.
I’ve hurt too many people already.
And the only way to keep women like Aspen safe is not to get involved.
I’m nobody. Nobody to Aspen. Nobody to anyone.
By design.
I lower myself onto the couch with a grunt, dried sweat pulling tight across my skin as I drain the last of my water.
“Time to get this over with.”
I pull up Carl’s contact and stare at it for a beat.
I’ve kept my superintendent updated on my injuries over text, but I’ve been avoiding this call.
And judging by the knot in my gut . . .
I’m about to find out exactly how much that’s going to cost me.
Heat prickles the back of my neck, and I press the call button. My heel beats an antsy rhythm into the carpet.
