Page 85 of The One Who Never Left: Colter

Something passed between them in the half-second before either of them moved—wordless and warm and entirely too honest for a room full of people. Her chest did the thing she'd been telling it not to do for weeks.

She looked back at Rea and gave a small, slow shake of her head like the liar she was.

Rea considered this for exactly one beat, lifted one elegant shoulder, then pivoted with the unhurried grace of a woman who had never once been deterred by a minor setback, and let her gaze settle on Cheryl instead.

“Ah, there she is! Confident, graceful, and clearly someone who knows exactly what she wants,” Rea declared, pointing dramatically. “Cheryl, my dear, you are the lucky winner tonight! If you accept.”

A collective sigh rippled through the crowd—the kind of disappointed groan that made Sutton’s chest tighten. Every hand had shot up, but somehow it had come down to Cheryl—the poised, perfect, untouchable Cheryl.

“I accept!” she called out and the women in the room applauded out of good sportsmanship—not because they were in favor of the decision.

Across the bar, unnoticed in the commotion, Lady Rea stepped down from the stage alone.

No fanfare or enthralled audience, just a seventy-something woman in silk and pearls setting her microphone down with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had done what she’d come to do.

Then her gaze found Sutton's again and this time her expression wasn’t the gleaming, mischievous look she aimed at grandsons, nor was it a performance. No, there was something underneath it—a confident look of a woman who had seen this particular thing before and recognized it on sight.

She didn't say anything. Just lifted her glass the smallest degree at Sutton, like a private toast, and looked away.

Sutton's chest pulled tight.

She thought about what Rea had told her at the barbecue—how she'd walked away from a title, an estate, and every expectation her family had ever placed on her shoulders, all for a rancher from Montana who smelled like horses and had no idea who she was. How she'd never once said she regretted it and how she'd buried him in the soil he'd loved and stayed there after, because leaving felt like losing him twice.

Sutton looked at her now and felt something move through her that she didn't entirely want to define, because Rea hadn't done all that because it was easy. She'd done it because she'd been brave enough to stop talking herself out of the right thing. Only, Sutton wasn’t that brave yet, she was very much still in the talking-herself-out-of-it phase.

She reached for her drink and found it empty, then decided that was probably a sign.

Colter’s eyes flicked to Cheryl, who was boldly waving around the room, and then—impossibly—found Sutton's for the third time that night.

That shaky, almost-embarrassed smile tugged at his lips, and something warm and terrifying spread through Sutton. Her stomach knotted, her heart raced, and suddenly, watching the rest of the spectacle felt impossible.

She could feel the tension coiling in her shoulders as the crowd’s cheers and groans faded into background noise. She’d spent too long staring at him, trying to read him, trying not to implode.

Finally, unable to endure it another second, Sutton shoved her chair back and stood. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, and without another word, she turned and made her way toward the back door, her pulse hammering in her ears.

She couldn’t stay. Not tonight. Not while her chest threatened to betray her with every beat.

Colter watched Sutton leave through the back, his stomach twisting in a way that had nothing to do with nerves. He started toward the exit when Cheryl stepped in front of him, smiling like she’d just won the lottery, but he barely registered her presence.

“Colter, I—” she started, voice polite and measured.

He raised a hand, forcing a tight smile. “I’m sorry, Cheryl. I need to step out for a minute. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

“Okay,” Cheryl said sounding confused and a bit hurt.

He’d seen the look on Sutton’s face. The flush of disappointment, the tight line of her mouth, the way her jaw clenched just enough to tell him what she was thinking without a single word escaping her lips.

And he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let her stew in that.

The moment Cheryl blinked in confused surprise, Colter pivoted and strode toward the back door. The cool night air hit him like a shock, and he broke into a jog before he even realized it.

Around the corner, he spotted her—Sutton, already at her car, hands fumbling with the keys, shoulders tense, hair catching the streetlight like fire.

“Hey,” he called softly, careful not to startle her.

Sutton jumped anyway, spinning around to face him, eyes wide.

“Colter,” she breathed, a mix of relief and exasperation in her voice. “What are you doing out here?”