Page 22 of The Route to You

Kyle had surprised her, though. He’d listened. Instead of pushing, he’d set aside whatever history existed between them and behaved like a decent human being. Which made her feel even worse.

What in the hell am I going to do if I can’t find my phone though?

She couldn’t stay here. Nice as he was, she wasn’t about to stay in a secluded cabin with Kyle Winnick. That was the kind of erratic decision that turned into drama when it eventually came out who Kyle was. Or if Dad or Penny saw him.

Maybe Kyle could call her a driver. She didn’t want to force him to drive her around, and she’d pay him back later. Given all her cards and her ID were stored in her phone, she hadn’t brought her wallet . . . like a modern adult who placed her entire identity inside a fragile rectangle.

Of course . . . if she did get a driver, there was only one place they could take her that made sense. Back to the hotel.

And there will end my sad misadventure of running away from my wedding. Evan would be mad, but he’d still want to go through with the wedding. This would be horrible for his reputation and image, especially if Sloan made the reason for her breakup public. He’d rail on about how they’d dragged all their family and friends to Colorado, and the time for changing their minds was over. They’d been living together for two years, after all. This was just a formality, according to him.

Another wave of panic broke through her body, a new round of tremors making her fingers quiver. How in the world was she going to go through with this? Extricating her life from Evan’s wasn’t as simple as just walking away and leaving a ring on a piece of paper. They shared a house and furniture. A bank account.

Thank God the house in Georgetown where he stayed when Congress was in session wasn’t something either of them owned.

But because travel to Washington several times a year and being on his schedule didn’t exactly align with a career, she didn’t even have a job right now.

The money was all his. Mostly. She had her credit cards Dad managed for her after Actaeon Tech had taken off, but independence wasn’t something she could suddenly summon out of thin air.

She squeezed her eyes shut, gasping for breath. It’s going to be all right. What was it that Kyle had said? Something she’d hated because it sounded like one of those inspirational quotes people framed in corporate offices.

A blank slate. The future is a blank slate.

The cabin door opened again, the temperature in the cabin dropping by degrees in an instant as Kyle stepped back inside, dusted with snow.

She shot to her feet. “Anything?”

He shook his head.

“Oh God, what am I going to do?”

Kyle pursed his lips. “Look, it’s coming down pretty heavily out there, and I don’t think driving is a great idea. Even if we did know what cabin you booked—which we don’t—they would have texted you the code for the door. You have no phone, so . . . that’s a problem.”

He hesitated, like he wasn’t thrilled with the words he was about to say. “I guess you can stay here until morning. If you want.”

She didn’t miss the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. Then again, could she blame him? He didn’t know her anymore and probably thought she was a bit unstable. And technically, she was, considering she was currently a runaway bride without a coat or phone.

It wasn’t like this cabin was spacious. Though, it wasn’t exactly like staying with a stranger. Maybe it’d been years ago, but they’d dated . . . slept together.

She gave the bed a wary glance. “I-I don’t think there’s any place for me to sleep.”

“There’s not.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I mean, there’s not an extra bed. And I only have the one sleeping bag. But you can have it. I’ll take the floor.”

Her gaze swept the floor. No rug. Nothing that suggested comfort. No blanket or sheets on the bare mattress, either.

That would be cruel.

But what other option did she have?

Sharing a bed with him?

“Okay,” she said carefully. “Thank you.” She bit her lip, thinking of the satin negligee in her carry-on and added, “Um . . . could I borrow a T-shirt, too?”

He raised a brow.

“My pj’s aren’t exactly cabin friendly.”

He made a vague gesture like this entire night had stopped making sense hours ago and moved over to a duffel bag under the bed. Crouching by it, he pulled out a long-sleeved, faded blue T-shirt—bunched, not folded—and held it out to her.