Page 10 of The Route to You

The thought made her chest feel like it was about to cave in.

Sloan shot to her feet, clutching her hands to her stomach.

Cheyenne lifted her brows. “You okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“I think I might be.” Sloan reached for her purse. “I’m going to get some air.”

Her heels wobbled slightly as she started toward the balcony. From here, the lights of the town twinkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows that wrapped around the top-floor restaurant. She’d dreamed of a Christmas wedding as a girl, though she couldn’t really remember, why right now. The last time Christmas had been anything like what the movies showed had been . . . maybe when she was seventeen? At Grandpop’s, before Mom got sick and Dad’s company had swallowed everything else.

Anyway, Evan had vetoed the idea of a Christmas wedding. He’d wanted to get married in January when the skiing would be better. So here they were.

One of the hotel workers opened the door for her as she approached, and she stepped into the cold, not stopping until she reached the railing.

She clutched the snow-dusted rail. Snow fell lightly, and she didn’t have her coat on, so she wouldn’t be able to stay out here long. Her lungs hurt as she drew a shaky breath. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” she whispered, fingers tightening.

Do I really want to marry a self-centered, cheating scumbag who steps all over me?

But what was the alternative? She didn’t even know if she believed in her ability to hold it together. She didn’t have a great track record for standing on her own two feet.

What was she supposed to do, just blow up her life?

Or maybe Evan already blew it up, and you didn’t realize you were walking in the wreckage.

I need to get an STD test.

Dammit.

Thank God sex had been rare lately. He’d complained about being too tired, and she’d been so busy with the pre-wedding appointments with Felicity and Bernice that she’d let it slide. She’d accepted both explanations gratefully.

Now she wondered if that, too, had been part of the story.

“God damn him,” she gritted out. “Motherfucker.”

“You okay?” A familiar male voice shook her from her reverie of curses.

She startled, then glanced over to see Kyle at the other end of the balcony, snow dusting the shoulders of his tux. She’d spotted him again when he’d come into the rehearsal dinner with Davy and then deliberately not looked for him since.

Great.

“What are you doing here?” Her breath fogged in front of her. She was shaking.

Kyle approached slowly. “I feel like I’m supposed to say something about gin joints, but really I’m the one crashing your party.”

She almost smiled. He would remember that Casablanca had been her favorite movie. But any other comeback died on her lips. She didn’t have it in her to try to be witty right now and, instead, tears burned her eyes.

Kyle’s expression shifted immediately. “Oh . . . I, uh, sorry.” He gestured toward the door. “I’ll just leave you alone and we can go back to pretending we don’t know each other.”

“No,” she managed quickly. She lifted her chin, blinking the tears away as she steadied herself. “No, it’s okay. I mean, I was obviously shocked to see you, but I’m not upset you’re here.” Which was technically true. Maybe she would be if things were normal and she could think about anything other than that envelope burning a hole in her purse. With far more enthusiasm than she felt, she said, “It’s good to see you.”

“All right, now I know you’re lying.” He unbuttoned his tux jacket, then shrugged out of it. “And you’re freezing. Here.” He held it out to her. “You don’t want to catch pneumonia for your wedding day.”

She was freezing, so she accepted the jacket from him and slipped it onto her shoulders. The warmth of it radiated onto her shoulders, but her shaking didn’t quite stop. “So, you’re staying at the Greyrock?” She could do this. She could manage small talk. Even with someone like Kyle. Even when all she wanted to do was fall apart.

“No, actually. I’m at a cabin rental place a few miles out of town called Fort Paradise. ” He chuckled, his voice rich and warm. Deep. “Which, I can tell you, is anything but paradise. I mean, the mountains are. But the cabins are . . . aggressively rustic. Greyrock isn’t quite in my tax bracket.”

She watched his mouth move as he talked, and somehow, it transported her back to being seventeen again, wrapped up in his arms, watching the stars, fooling around in his truck after a Friday night football game.

Her stomach bottomed out at that thought. They’d been each other’s firsts.