Page 97 of The Route to You

“Kyle!” She laughed, slapping his backside. “Put me down!”

“Oof—” he grunted slightly, then slid her back onto the couch, easing down beside her. His hand rubbed his injured shoulder. “You’re going to kill me, woman.”

She rolled toward him, her laughter fading away as she set her hand on his, alarm pulsing through her. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“It’s fine,” he said, but he didn’t pull his hand away.

Her fingers were still curled around his, warm and light, but there was nothing light about the way her pulse thudded against her ribs. She studied his face, the faint tension around his mouth, the way his jaw set like he was bracing for impact.

“Kyle,” she said, pointedly, frowning at him. “You’re still wincing.”

He exhaled through his nose, something between a laugh and a surrender. “I didn’t mean to wince.”

“Uh-huh. And I didn’t mean to nearly trip over my own feet walking down Main Street today.”

That coaxed a real smile out of him. “You did that?”

“Spectacularly. I was wearing a blister on my heel and not paying attention.” Her thumb brushed over the back of his hand without her quite meaning it to. She sensed him stiffen and withdrew it slightly. “So. Humor me. Where does it hurt?”

He hesitated, then shifted carefully. “Just . . . pulled something, I think. It’ll be fine. Range of motion is still only at like eighty percent. The doctor said I’m supposed to be smarter than my ego, but I’m still working on that part.”

“Clearly,” she said, but her voice softened on the word. She leaned closer, studying his shoulder like she could somehow see through skin and stubbornness. “You don’t have to play hero with me.”

His gaze lifted to hers, something unguarded flickering there. “I’m not.”

The air between them went quiet in that charged way that had nothing to do with the room and everything to do with the inches separating them.

She became acutely aware of the couch beneath her, of his thigh close to hers, of the way his hand was still trapped under hers like neither of them quite wanted to be the first to let go. The house felt smaller somehow. Or maybe it was just the world narrowing down to blue eyes and a familiar, dangerous smile.

A smile she’d cried at the thought of losing when Cheyenne told her about the accident. When she’d driven across the country, still half filled with panic, each mile felt interminable.

“You scared me,” she admitted.

He tilted his head. “From tossing you over my shoulder?”

“From pretending you’re indestructible.”

His expression shifted at that—softened and warmed. “I take it we’re not talking about five seconds ago.”

She swallowed hard, shaking her head.

Kyle turned his hand under hers and clasped it, lowering both their hands to rest on his thigh. The touch made her pulse stutter, her breath shallow. “I’m not pretending,” he said teasingly.

Sloan scowled at him. “Kyle Winnick.”

“Sloan Carrington.”

“I’m serious, Kyle. If I know you at all—learned anything from watching you in Breckenridge—you probably wiped out on the jet ski doing something you shouldn’t have. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. As it is, I feel horrible that I didn’t find out about it for months. But imagine if I’d found out you’d been killed or something.” Her voice shook. “I⁠—”

I would have blamed myself.

Fallen apart.

She couldn’t find the words to finish, but tears pooled in her eyes.

“Hey,” Kyle said, shifting toward her. His hand left the safety of her own and cupped her face. “That didn’t happen, though. I’m fine, Sloan. I’m right here.”

His thumbs brushed her cheek, catching her tears before they could fall, and the gentleness of it nearly undid her. Sloan’s breath hitched, her chest tight in a way that was no longer about her panic at the thought of losing him but instead about the fact that he was this close—too close—and looking at her like she was something breakable and something precious at the same time.