Page 73 of The Route to You

The front dipped too sharply.

The impact slammed through him, and his breath ripped out of his chest in a brutal, useless rush. Pain detonated across his shoulder and ribs, bright and blinding and everywhere, and the handlebars wrenched sideways, tearing at his arms. Something inside him cracked or tore— he couldn’t tell what—oh fuck .

He hit the Jet Ski again, hard, and then the water, harder. Cold and noise swallowed him. His lungs burned, refusing to work the way they were supposed to, a blur of stinging salt and blue and dark.

For a stupid, distant second, his brain latched on to the wrong details—the shape of the sun through the water, the ridiculous thought of his phone in his lanyard . . .

A memory of Sloan’s brown hair gleaming in the sun as she stepped onto the sidewalk of a salon in Vail.

Then everything went white and disappeared.

19

SLOAN

SIX MONTHS LATER

Turned out that breaking up with a politically powerful, vengeful, and asshole of a fiancé wasn’t quite as simple as leaving the night of her rehearsal dinner.

Sloan’s lawyer—hired by her father—Margaret Klinefelter, pointed to the next line for Sloan to sign. She nearly sighed, then dragged her pen across the paper, watching as it left behind her signature. Something about it made her feel sick, her thoughts drifting back to the days when she’d sat in the living room of the house she’d co-owned with Evan in Bozeman, practicing Sloan Tipton over and over again to make it perfect.

Then her thoughts went back further, to junior year of high school, when the last name she’d scrawled in her notebook at her desk hadn’t been Tipton at all, but Winnick, with hearts drawn around it.

Instead of being her husband, though, Evan now sat across from her at the conference table, lawyers flanking him, his expression like he’d just swallowed a shot of vinegar.

Funny how easy it is for someone to go from being “your everything” to a stranger whose day-to-day life you know nothing about.

He didn’t even look at her.

Sloan’s lips pressed to a line as she set the pen down. “Is that it?”

Margaret nodded and smiled. “That should do it. Congratulations, Evan, you are now the sole owner of the house in Bozeman.”

Evan flicked a bored glance at Margaret and nodded.

Man, this should feel so much better than it does.

Sloan gave Margaret an obligatory smile anyway. “Thank you, for everything.”

At her side, Penny checked her watch. “If that’s everything, we should get going.” She rose from the plush chair in the office, gathering her purse and directing a look at Margaret as she tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. “I’ll have my father call you to iron out anything else that still needs to be done.”

Even though Sloan had told Penny she didn’t need her to come, she was glad that Penny had insisted on it. Not that Penny offered warmth, really, but her presence was enough. And she had as good a no-nonsense, businesswoman poker face as the best of them.

Sloan stood, too.

This is so weird.

Was she supposed to say goodbye to Evan? Or anything? Have a nice life, asshole, maybe?

But he didn’t say anything—studied the wall, instead.

So that’s that. An unglamorous end to the relationship that had dominated the majority of her adulthood.

Margaret joined Penny and Sloan just outside the door. “I think we’re almost there,” Margaret said to Sloan cheerfully, clasping her hands together. “You’re almost through it.”

Almost through it.

Sloan repeated the line to herself as she left the office.