Page 45 of The Route to You

He’d spent most of the day carving like he still had something to prove, only to have it all fall apart on a trick he wasn’t nearly good enough for.

He didn’t know what he should be more worried about, though. That he’d tried something he knew was dangerous and ate it anyway . . . or that he’d probably do it again if given the chance.

Moron.

An exhausted grin tugged at his mouth as Sloan and Francesca climbed out from the back of the truck. The girls had spent the day on skis—Sloan laughing like she wasn’t carrying the weight of the world on her back. A day in the snow hadn’t been a part of his plans for this trip, but he didn’t regret it.

Somehow, he’d needed this. The speed. The thrill of the icy wind whipping past his face and gravity and movement. Something loud enough to drown out everything else.

And from the smile that continued to linger on Sloan’s face as Francesa said something he couldn’t hear, she’d needed it, too. She’d skied surprisingly well, considering how she’d confessed she didn’t enjoy it.

“I’m so fried,” Sloan said, breathlessly, sitting beside Kyle. She winced audibly as her eyes landed on the scratched bruise on his cheek from the face-plant. “Do you need ice for that?”

“That’d be ironic,” Francesca said with a laugh, setting her skis on the porch.

Kyle arched a brow. “Pretty sure the mountain already provided all the ice I need.”

Francesca glanced at the setting sun, then sidled up to Dean, slipping her arm around him like it was muscle memory. “Speaking of needed things, what are your plans for the night?”

Kyle exchanged a look with Sloan. He was comfortable flying by the seat of his pants—he’d made a career of it—but somehow, he doubted Sloan did. And starting for Montana now was out of the question. The roads were going to get uglier after dark, and they were all toasted. “Uh, not sure. Probably grabbing dinner in town.”

“You guys want to eat and crash here for the night?” Francesca asked as Dean unlocked the front door. “We don’t mind. You were staying in Vail, right?”

“The Breck is way better than Vail. You don’t want to go back there,” Dean said, giving Kyle a sharp, teasing look.

Francesca rolled her eyes and tugged Dean toward the door. “We’ll let you guys argue about ski towns alone.”

Dean stumbled theatrically as she dragged him inside. “This is oppression.”

Once they were gone, Kyle shifted, giving Sloan a sidelong glance. “How are you holding up?”

“Good,” she said, leaning back against the wall. She closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath through her nose, then sighed, like she needed to release something from her lungs. “I think I’m good, anyway. It was nice being out there. Not thinking so much about . . . everything.”

Kyle nodded, the words sitting heavy in his chest. “So, what’s our plan? I’ve got that cabin rented until tomorrow, but I can tell you right now I’m not up for sleeping on the floorboards again.” He rolled his shoulders and groaned. “My spine has filed a formal complaint.”

A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “I don’t want to go back there anyway.” She hesitated, then added, “If that’s all right with you. If Davy told Evan about you, then he’ll be waiting for me there.”

“Maybe not.” A knot of tension that had been building in his chest every time he thought about Evan tightened. “So . . . stay here, then?”

She glanced toward the door. “If you think your friends won’t mind. They seem nice.”

“They are.” Dean and Francesca were the definition of chill. And they hadn’t asked questions when Kyle had introduced Sloan as his “old friend,” though Kyle would bet money Francesca’s curiosity was now doing somersaults.

“How’d you all meet?”

“Dean was my sister’s lead guitarist for a while.” Kyle grinned. “We hit it off and stayed in touch after she stopped touring.”

Sloan’s eyes widened. “Elle. That’s right.” Her voice held a flicker of genuine surprise, like she’d known this and forgotten. “She was really big in country music for a while. I remember seeing her on a morning news show and being totally blown away.” She glanced at him. “Is she still doing that? I haven’t heard anything new in a long time.”

“No.” His smile softened. “I think the price of fame rubbed her the wrong way. But she still lives in Nashville. I saw her over Christmas. She’s got two girls and just found out she’s expecting a son.”

“So, you’re an uncle,” Sloan said, peeling her snow hat off. “I bet you’re a fun one. Your nieces probably love you.”

Yeah. When I’m around.

Guilt pressed against his ribs. He’d seen it this Christmas—Tara losing that toddler look, turning into a full-on kid who could talk your ear off. Charlotte going from walking unsteadily to running.

And he’d missed so much of it.