When Sky Breaks: Burn & Break Duet Book 2

34. Sky

August’s house.

It’s weird to say that, especially because most of the moments I spent with August were when he didn’t have four walls to even call a bedroom, let alone an entire two-bedroom modern cottage.

And all his. Just like he wanted.

I smother a junky cough and walk up the wooden steps to a porch, smiling at the rocking chairs and table to my left. There are two chairs as if he expected someone to sit out here with him.

One for me, maybe?

If the heart is a compass, it’s leading me straight to August as I step through his front door and into his domain with no hesitation under my feet.

Through my partially stuffy nose, I pick up his scent as I pass the threshold. It smells of Irish Spring, like he took a shower before he came over to my house. For reasons unknown, I thought he’d pick a different body wash as he got older, but the predictability of his hygiene offers me some weird comfort I can’t describe.

Without holding back, I drop my bag near the kitchen island and take an unfiltered tour of the house. This is his space, and I want to know the August that lives here, not a version I make up in my head.

The home is masculine with its wood accents and gray walls, a color that so closely reminds me of his eyes. Soft and warm, intuitive and blistering with the need to please. I know the feeling well. But I’m finally at the point where self-preservation takes a front seat to the people-pleasing part of me. With Johnny out of my life, there’s a freedom pressing against my ribcage, willing me to keep breathing, to keep moving toward what I want—who I want.

It’s difficult to stop the stinging from behind my eyes. August finally made something of himself. Despite every hurdle, he made a home.

I brush my fingers along the back of his cloth sofa and continue down the hall.

In one room, I peek in to find a guest bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. So that means the next door leads to his bedroom.

Closing that room, I swallow past the burn in my achy throat and push open his door.

Steam from the bathroom to my right coats the mirror, and the humid air in the room lays damp on my skin. A towel is thrown over the back of a chair near a window, and I purposely look away so I don’t think about August being naked under it moments before he came to my house.

Too late.

Looking at his made bed brings back those memories of sharing our bodies with each other. There’s an imprint from where he probably sat, and I graze my fingers over the fabric, fully wishing it was still warm from him. My skin begins to buzz and heat rises along my neck.

Before I roll around in his sheets like a cat in heat, I back up and close his door, leaning my feverish forehead against the cool wood.

Right. I should go take some meds.

On the kitchen island, August laid out a bunch of different bottles. Nasal decongestants, cough drops, and pain relievers all in a neat row next to a coffee mug and sugar packets. He thought of it all, and the mere presence of this level of care hits me in the chest. Past the junk, past the achy muscles and heavy head, a dopey smile breaks to the surface of my face.

A thunk on the back door makes me jump away from my mushy emotions.

A hand to my frantic heart, I slowly peek through the blinds. And gasp.

An enormous dog with shaggy white fur and dark brown eyes stares at me with a lolling pink tongue. Its black nose presses to the glass, the condensation fogging the door with each breath in and out.

My fingers tremble as I pull the door open and almost get bowled over by the pup’s excitement.

“Oh!” I say as the big body bumps into me and sits on my feet, head tilted back, presumably for some rubs.

Its soft fur is cool and thick under my palms. I stroke down and around an ear sticking straight in the air.

“And who are you?”

There’s a pink collar winking out from her fur.

The lump in my throat gets larger.

“Oh my god. He didn’t.”

I twist the collar to get to the tag as she licks the back of my hand.

“Winter.”

She barks, wagging her fluffy tail, and I step away, covering my mouth with my palms.

Tears pool in my eyes. August got the dog I had talked about so long ago. I can’t believe he remembered.

Really, Sky? You still don’t believe?

I laugh and bend to my knees, my chest expanding as she comes closer and lets me bury my face into her thick coat. “Gosh, you are so pretty, Winter. Your daddy is at my house. He made me come here to get better. Hope that’s okay.”

She woofs again and trots over to her water bowl to lap up a bunch of water, getting it all over the floor.

I stare at her some more as she moves from the water to the food in her bowl.

August constantly surprises me, and I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it.

Is it really a surprise or just a core piece of him? A piece that’s drawn to me and me to him. Sometimes, I’m a complete mess around him, but complete all the same. Now that I’m back home and here in his space, the walls slowly shatter into diamonds at my feet, reflecting the whole person underneath.

My stuffy nose, worse from the tears of seeing Winter and knowing August is taking care of my father and essentially me—I succumb to taking some meds. Once ingested, I venture over to the bookcase in the living room while Winter takes up residence on the couch and watches me with her ever-curious brown eyes.

There’s an old camera on display and a few other knickknacks among the rows of books. He’s a lot neater than I am, I muse as I run my fingers over the spines of several travel photography books. I pull one out and open to the middle, finding a beautiful picture of some redwoods in a dense, lush forest.

Page after page of gorgeous photos draws me in. August is just as good, if not better, than some of these artists. I drag out another book and look in the front at the names. My chest lurches when I see his.

Flipping quickly yet mindful of the fragile glossy pages, I find his spread. I knew he was in a book based on my internet search, but as my fingers ghost over his name in bold type font and the picture of him, I realize just how amazing he is. Those potent gray eyes stare back out at me. A flutter takes flight in my chest at the tiny smirk on his face.

His photos are as stunning in the book as the ones displayed at Snaps. Pebbles and sea glass on beaches. Vivid sunsets. Leaves dripping in dew and a ladybug in mid-flight off the tip of a finger.

I close the book and hold it close, breathing in the leather-bound cover now that my nose isn’t as stuffed up thanks to the medicine. He made a mark—his mark—in this busy, cruel world.

The word is pride. I’m proud of him and his accomplishments. Yet, he still put that aside and came home.

But for how long? Yes, he has a house, and I’m guessing he’s helping his mom financially, and he has Snaps and what he’s doing at Catalina’s, but is he truly rooted to this place? It’s much smaller than the world he saw through the camera lens. Will it be enough for him now that he’s seen it all?

Am I enough to keep him here?

Before my spirit plummets to the ground with all these swirling thoughts, I browse for something to read and possibly put me to sleep, as I’m certain August doesn’t have any fiction that would actually entice me. I should’ve brought my e-reader.

Wait.

No way.

The squeal I emit stirs Winter from her slumber, and she jumps from the couch to join me at the bookshelf. I bend and pet her before plucking a book off the shelf, my eyes roaming over the matte cover.

“Winter. Your daddy has been holding out on me. He has the newest book in the Murder and Mayhem series. Hold up, he doesn’t really read this stuff, does he?”

She woofs, and I giggle in excitement.

All ten of the books are in a neat row on the shelf next to where I pulled this one. And there’s a dog-eared page in the new one I’m holding.

“He’s also clearly a monster. Where’s his bookmark?”

Winter cocks her cute head. “Fine. I’ve used silverware and old receipts as bookmarks, but at least I don’t mangle them.”

Ignoring the sleepy effects of the meds, I settle down on August’s couch and open to page one. But not before shooting off a text to him, berating him on his choice of placeholders, biting my lip as I wait for his response.

He bought the entire series he knows I’m obsessed with and has been reading them himself.

But buying books and displaying photos of me all over Snaps doesn’t mean he’s staying.

He’s currently at your house taking care of your dad while you’re sick. What kind of man just does that?

In minutes, the medicine overrides any more of my ambitions. I close my eyes to the answer to my question.

One who stole my heart all those years ago and has no intention of giving it back.