Page 16 of The Route to You

He walked out the door without a word, and she slammed it behind him.

What the hell did I just do?

She almost opened the door again and ran after him, but she looked down and saw her robe still untied, her lacy bra showing.

God.

Humiliation curled through her. She squeezed her eyes shut, then crawled onto the bed, sobbing.

How could he have rejected her after everything?

How could he walk away?

How can he just leave me when my heart is already broken into a thousand little pieces?

6

KYLE

PRESENT

The snowstorm was picking up. The wind outside the small wooden cabin had upgraded from a whip-crack to a full-body howl, like the mountains wanted to remind him that those who couldn’t pay for expensive lodging would pay the price tonight.

Good thing I rented a car with chains. Otherwise, getting back to the Greyrock tomorrow would involve prayer, a shovel, and maybe cross-country skis.

Kyle loosened the bow tie on his rented tux and blew out a breath. What a night. He’d expected champagne and mild discomfort that came from going to something like a wedding where he knew no one.

He’d never expected the bride for this blessed event to be Sloan Carrington.

Sloan . The girl who had shattered his heart when he was twenty and then apparently moved on to starring in her own glossy, expensive life while he became a man who pulled cactus spines out of his ass for content.

He’d been tempted to tell Davy the moment he’d recognized Sloan, but when Sloan had made it clear that she preferred they pretend they didn’t know each other, he chose to respect her silence. She didn’t exactly look thrilled to see him. Besides, the only time he’d attempted to talk to her tonight, she’d been gone in two seconds like the balcony floor had opened up beneath her.

He grimaced, then moved over toward the woodstove and opened it. The fire was close to dead, which wasn’t surprising given he’d been gone for a few hours.

Maybe he’d been naive about the amount of wood he’d need to keep this damn place warm, but he’d have to go out there and grab some more before the pile got completely buried. The listing for Fort Paradise— Fort Paradise —had promised a fully stocked wood pile. It neglected to mention the part where he’d have to split the logs himself like a lumberjack with a tragic backstory.

Throwing another log into the stove, he watched as the fire danced around the wood already burning inside, licking up the sides in something that felt ancient and mesmerizing. Or maybe that was the type of mental headspace he’d reached—giving meaning to shit that had no meaning at all.

Like showing up to your ex-girlfriend’s rehearsal dinner.

He shut the latch, then straightened, taking a sidelong glance out toward the door. He’d need to change out of this tux before he went back out. He’d split several logs when he’d arrived four days ago, thankfully, but he’d woefully underestimated how much wood he’d go through in that time. Hopefully, there’d be enough split wood to last through the night.

The cabin was less insulated from the cold than he’d hoped it would be when he’d found the place online. The pictures had also clearly been taken with a wide-angle lens because it only took ten steps to cross the length of the whole cabin.

After slipping on a pair of sweatpants, a thermal shirt, and his parka, he yanked his snow boots on, then headed for the door. He pulled his gloves out of the pockets of his jacket where he’d stashed them, then gritted his teeth, bracing himself for the blast of cold that would hit him when he opened that door.

His phone rang in his pocket.

Biting the tip of his glove, he yanked it off, then reached for his phone. The number wasn’t stored in his contacts, but something about it jogged his memory. “Hello?”

“Kyle, thank God.” Sloan’s voice came breathlessly through the crackle of static. “Are you still at the hotel?”

His brows furrowed. Why in the hell is Sloan calling me? “Uh . . . no? I’m at my cabin.”

A sob broke through the line. “Can you go outside with a flashlight?”

“What?”