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The October air bites through my shirt. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“Start talking.”

I shove my hands into my pockets. “About what?”

She stares at me.

“Wrong answer,” I mutter.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Boulder.”

“For ten years?”

“Mostly.”

“Doing what?”

“Working.”

“Grayson.”

I drag a hand over my face. “I stayed after they discharged me from physical therapy. Got a job at a motorcycle shop. Eventually opened my own place.”

“You own a motorcycle shop?”

“Blackwood Customs.”

She blinks. “I’ve heard of Blackwood Customs.”

“Yeah?”

“Clara’s boyfriend talks about it. You make those ridiculously expensive custom bikes?”

“Among other things.”

“Of course you do.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You disappear for ten years and come back rich, tattooed, and apparently determined to give me a heart attack.”

“Wasn’t the plan.”

“What was the plan?”

I look at her.

That’s the problem.

There never was a fucking plan.

I came back to Devil’s Peak six months ago because I was tired of living three hours away from the only woman I’ve ever loved. Bought the old Blackwood place, started renovating it, and told myself I’d find the right time to knock on her door.

Then I saw her through the bakery window.

Smiling at a customer. Flour on her cheek. Looking happy.

And I kept walking.

Did the same thing the next day.