Chapter Four
Gray clouds pressed against the horizon, blocking the sun. Through the windshield, Jamie watched the sky darken, transforming the mountains into shadowed silhouettes. Thunder rumbled somewhere distant, a promise held back.
Sloane navigated the switchbacks with practiced ease, hands relaxed on the wheel. Each turn revealed another layer of forest, pines crowding close to the asphalt. The Charger hugged the curves without effort, engine purring through the climbs and descents.
Jamie watched the landscape blur past, trying not to think about how natural Sloane looked behind the wheel. Or how the gray light softened his profile. Or how Jamie’s stomach still hadn’t settled from that kiss.
“You okay?” Sloane asked, glancing over.
“Just admiring the scenic route to my inevitable embarrassment.” Jamie slouched lower in his seat. “Fair warning. My apartment makes this car look like a palace. Actually, a shoebox would look like a palace compared to my place.”
“I’m not judging your apartment.”
“You say that now.”
Another switchback, this one tighter. Trees pressed closer, branches reaching overhead like gnarled fingers. The road dipped and rose, winding down from whatever mountain paradise Sloane called home into the valley where Jamie’s reality waited.
With every mile, his anxiety ratcheted higher. What if Nick had left dishes everywhere? What if yesterday’s laundry still decorated the couch? What if William had somehow broken in and was waiting there like a nightmare made flesh?
Gradually things looked more familiar. “Take the next left. Then it’s about two miles straight.”
Sloane followed the directions without comment, turning onto a street where the houses shrank from sprawling to modest to “we’re doing our best here.” His building sat at the end, a brick structure that had probably looked decent in the eighties. Now it just looked tired.
“That one. Third floor.” Jamie pointed. “The one with the sketchy fire escape.”
Sloane pulled into a visitor spot and killed the engine. Silence rushed in, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and distant traffic.
“Thanks for the ride.” Jamie’s hand found the door handle. “And everything else. You really didn’t have to—”
“I’ll walk you up.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I know.” Sloane was already out of the car, rounding the hood.
They climbed the stairs together, Jamie’s pulse thundering louder with each step. This was fine. Sloane would see the door, maybe nod politely, then leave. No big deal. People saw other people’s apartments all the time without forming judgments about their entire existence.
At the third-floor landing, Jamie fumbled for his keys. “Well. This is me. Thanks again for—”
“Can I use your bathroom?” Sloane asked. “Long drive.”
Every excuse Jamie could think of died on his tongue. Saying no would be weird. Rude. Suspicious. But letting Sloane inside meant exposing every flaw, every corner where Jamie’s life didn’t quite measure up.
“Sure. Yeah. It’s just...” He unlocked the door, pushing it open with growing dread. “Please ignore the general state of chaos. We’re between cleaning schedules. By which I mean we don’t have a cleaning schedule.”
He stepped inside first, scanning the damage. There was a pizza box on the coffee table, Nick’s hoodie draped over the armchair, and a stack of dishes sat by the sink that hadn’t been there yesterday.
At least the place didn’t smell weird.
Sloane followed him in, filling the small entryway with his presence. “Bathroom?”
“Down the hall. First door on the right.” Jamie gestured, already planning his attack strategy.
As soon as Sloane disappeared, Jamie lunged for the pizza box, grabbed it, then shoved it into the recycling bin hard enough to bend cardboard. Next, he snatched Nick’s hoodie from the chair and tossed it toward the bedroom door. It landed halfway, but close enough.
Dirty socks peeked from under the couch. He kicked them toward the hallway, then dove for the coffee table, gathering scattered mail and a game controller. Jamie dumped the mail on the kitchen counter, and shoved the controller under a cushion.
The dishes mocked him from the sink. There were too many and they were way too visible. He grabbed three mugs and crammed them into the dishwasher, then a few plates followed.
Water ran in the bathroom. Sloane would be out any second.
Jamie swiped a dish towel across the counter, erasing crumbs that probably dated back to Tuesday. He fluffed a couch pillow, then kicked a magazine under the TV stand.
The bathroom door clicked open.
Jamie straightened, trying to look casual as Sloane emerged. “Find everything okay?”
You just had to ask him that awkward question, didn’t you? Like you’re being nosy about his bathroom habits.
“Yeah.” Sloane’s gaze swept the apartment, taking it in. The mismatched furniture Jamie had collected from thrift stores. The posters Nick had insisted on hanging. The bookshelf that leaned slightly left because one leg was shorter than the others.
“It’s not much,” Jamie said, hating how small his voice sounded. “But it’s home. Nick and I split the rent, which makes it almost affordable. Well. Affordable-adjacent.”
“It’s nice.” Sloane moved into the living room, stopping by the bookshelf. His finger traced along the spines. “You read a lot.”
“Nick’s the reader. I just pretend so I look cultured.” The joke fell flat. Jamie twisted his hands together. “You want something to drink? We have water. And... water. Also tap water, if you’re feeling adventurous.”
Will you stop? He’s gonna think you’re lame.
“I’m good.” Sloane turned, leaning against the bookshelf with that same easy confidence that made Jamie’s stomach flip. “You don’t need to be nervous.”
“Who, me? I’m not nervous.” He let out a high-pitched laugh. “This is just my face.”
“Jamie.”
The way Sloane said his name did things to Jamie’s pulse. Soft but certain, like he could see through every deflection.
“Okay, maybe a little nervous.” Jamie crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, unsure what to do with his hands. “You have a house with actual walls and furniture that matches. I have a couch held together by hope and duct tape. It’s a bit of a contrast.”
“So?” Sloane pushed off the bookshelf, closing the distance between them. Not crowding, just nearer. “You think I care about furniture?”
“Most people care about furniture.”
“I’m not most people.”
True. Most people didn’t kiss like they were trying to rewrite Jamie’s entire understanding of chemistry.
Most people didn’t bring him breakfast after he’d passed out in their car.
Most people didn’t look at him like Sloane was looking at him now, like he was paying attention on purpose, not out of politeness.
“I should probably...” Jamie gestured vaguely toward the door. “You probably have places to be. Things to do. Tables to build.”
Sloane’s mouth curved. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“I’m trying to give you an exit strategy before you realize what a disaster I am.”
“Too late.” Sloane’s hand found Jamie’s jaw, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. The touch sent electricity through Jamie’s system, making his breath catch. “Already figured that out. Don’t care.”
“You should care. I’m a walking red flag.”
“Red’s my favorite color.”
Who was this guy, and why was he saying all the right things?
Before Jamie could formulate another protest, Sloane kissed him. Not like before, not deep and consuming. Just a press of lips, firm and unhurried, that somehow felt more intimate than anything that had come before.
When Sloane pulled back, Jamie’s knees had forgotten their primary function. He blinked, trying to restart his brain while his lips tingled and his pulse thundered in his ears.
“I should go,” Sloane said, but he didn’t move.
“Yeah. Probably.” Jamie didn’t move either.
They stood there, inches apart, the apartment quiet around them. Outside, a car door slammed. Someone laughed in the hallway. Normal sounds from a normal world that felt very far away.
Sloane’s thumb traced Jamie’s jaw once more, the touch gentle enough to make Jamie’s throat tighten. Then he stepped back, breaking the contact, and the loss of it felt like cold water.
“I’ll text you,” Sloane said, heading for the door.
“You better.” Jamie followed him, hands shoved in his pockets to keep from reaching out. “Otherwise I’ll assume you’re just collecting disaster stories for your memoir.”
“Chapter Six: The Guy Who Face-Planted into My Charger.” Sloane paused in the doorway, looking back with that half-smile that did dangerous things to Jamie’s composure. “Has a nice ring to it.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
The truth of it settled in Jamie’s bones. He didn’t hate Sloane. Didn’t even come close. Which was terrifying in ways he wasn’t ready to examine.
After Sloane left, Jamie closed the door and leaned against it, letting his head thunk back against the wood. His lips still felt electric. His hands trembled slightly when he raised them to his face.
What the hell was he doing?
Getting involved with someone right now, with William still lurking like a bad omen, was the worst possible decision. But Sloane made him want to ignore every sensible instinct he had.
Jamie pushed off the door and headed for the bathroom. Work started in two hours, and he needed a shower to clear his head. Needed to wash away the smell of Sloane’s cologne and the memory of his touch and the stupid, hopeful feeling blooming in his ribs.
Steam filled the tiny bathroom, fogging the mirror. Jamie braced his hands against the tile, head bowed, trying to process everything that had happened in the last twelve hours.
He’d gone to the bar to forget William. Instead, he’d found Sloane.
Found someone who kissed like a promise and looked at him like he mattered.
Someone who made him want things he’d convinced himself he didn’t need.
Jamie reached for the soap, scrubbing away the lingering scent of cedar and clean musk, even as part of him wanted to keep it.
He had to be smart about this. Had to protect himself. Getting attached to Sloane would only end badly.
Even if every cell in his body wanted to do exactly that.
* * * *
During the drive to Pawsome Pets, rain began as a mist then thickened into drops that drummed against the windshield.
Jamie turned on the wipers, but they did nothing to clear his thoughts.
His mind kept circling back to Sloane—those bluish-gray eyes, that mouth, the way he’d kissed Jamie like it meant something.
Ridiculous. They’d known each other less than a day. People didn’t develop feelings that fast. Except Jamie’s pulse kicked up every time he replayed the morning in his head, his lips still tingled from that goodbye kiss, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had shifted.
He’d never missed someone he barely knew. Missing required history, time, shared experiences. Yet here he was, already wondering when Sloane would text, already replaying their conversation, already wondering when he’d see him again.
Would Sloane actually text? Or had that been one of those things people said to be polite before disappearing forever?
This is what happens when you let hot strangers feed you breakfast.
Rain hammered harder, drumming against the roof.
Jamie flicked the wipers to high, watching them fight a losing battle against the downpour.
Pawsome Pets appeared through the rain-streaked windshield, its hand-painted sign swinging slightly in the wind.
The building was small, painted a cheerful yellow that looked washed out under the storm clouds.
Flower boxes hung beneath the windows, overflowing with petunias that drooped under the assault of rain.
Pulling into the back, Jamie sprinted for the employee entrance, jacket pulled over his head, shoes splashing through puddles that had formed in the uneven pavement.
The familiar jingle of the bell announced his arrival as he ducked inside, dripping and breathless.
Warm air wrapped around him immediately, carrying the distinctive smell of cedar shavings, kibble, and that slightly musky scent of animals living in close quarters.
Not unpleasant. Comforting, actually. Like coming home.
Small-town pet stores had a particular atmosphere, cozy in a way the big chains could never replicate.
String lights hung from the ceiling, casting everything in a soft glow.
Mismatched shelving lined the walls, stocked with food bags and toys and treats.
Handwritten signs marked the prices, some decorated with paw prints Emma had drawn during slow afternoons.
To the left, rows of aquariums bubbled softly, fish darting through plastic plants.
To the right, bird cages housed a rotating cast of parakeets and finches that chirped their morning greetings.
The small mammal section contained guinea pigs, hamsters, a pair of rabbits currently napping in their hay.
And in the back corner, the reptile and spider section. Jamie actively avoided looking that way. Nope. No thank you.
He hung his jacket on the hook by the door and grabbed his apron from behind the counter, tying it around his waist as he headed for the small animal section.
A guinea pig squeaked at him, pressing its nose against the glass. Jamie crouched, tapping the enclosure gently. “Morning, Sparkles. You sleep okay?”
Sparkles wheezed in response, which Jamie took as a yes.
“Talking to the rodents again?” a voice called from behind the fish tanks. “That’s definitely a sign of deteriorating mental health.”
Emma emerged carrying a bucket of supplies, her curly hair pulled into two puffs on either side of her head.
She stood maybe five-two on a good day, with round cheeks and a smile that could sell ice to penguins.
Today she wore overalls covered in pins—a rainbow flag, a cartoon rabbit, something that said “I pet all the dogs” in glittery letters, and snarky slogans.
“Sparkles and I have an understanding,” Jamie said, straightening. “She judges me silently while I clean her cage. It’s very therapeutic.”
“Mm-hmm.” She tapped her chin, eyes narrowing. “You’re all…glowy. Like you got eight hours of sleep or found twenty bucks in your jeans. What happened?”
“I woke up in a stranger’s bed this morning. Really builds character.”
“You what?” Emma’s green eyes went wide. “Jamie Alexander Chen, you better start talking. Don’t leave out any details, especially the good ones.”
“Can we maybe clean while I talk? I don’t trust myself to stand still and form coherent sentences.”
Working with animals had always been easy. They didn’t judge. Didn’t ask complicated questions. Just wanted food, clean bedding, and occasional affection. Jamie could provide all three without having to explain himself.
He moved methodically through the enclosures, refreshing water bottles, scooping out soiled bedding, distributing food. A pair of young rabbits hopped over to investigate his hands, noses twitching. One of them—a black and white Dutch—stood on hind legs, begging.
“You’re literally too darn cute.” Jamie scratched between its ears, earning a contented grunt. The rabbit’s fur was impossibly soft, warm under his fingers. “Spoiled, that’s what you are.”
“So?” Emma prompted, dumping pellets into the guinea pig feeder. The three guinea pigs—Alvin, Simon, and Theodore—wheeled their approval, crowding around the bowl like they hadn't been fed in weeks. Dramatic little potato-shaped liars. “This stranger. Hot? Creepy? Hotly creepy?”
“Hot. Very hot. Like, illegally hot.” Jamie swept harder, pushing wood shavings into a neat pile. “We met at Frothy Pine.”
Emma paused mid-pour. “And?”
“And nothing. He gave me breakfast and drove me home this morning.” Jamie dumped the dustpan into the trash, avoiding her gaze. “That’s it.”
“That is not it. You have ‘I got kissed senseless’ written all over your face.”
“He might’ve kissed me. Once. Or twice.”
Emma squealed, the sound startling a nearby parakeet into frantic chirping. She grabbed his wrist, steering him toward the break room. “Okay, we’re taking five minutes. You’re going to sit down, and you’re going to tell me everything, starting with how you two met.”
“We can’t just abandon the store.”
“There’s literally one customer, and she’s looking at fish food. She’ll survive without us for five minutes. Come on.”
The break room was barely large enough for a table, two chairs, a mini fridge that hummed ominously, and a coffee pot older than him. Emma shoved him into a chair then perched on the table, legs swinging.
“Talk,” she commanded. “What’s his name? Does he have a job? Can he cook? Most importantly, is he emotionally stable, or are we looking at Chad 3.0?”
He could deflect again, make a joke, change the subject. But Emma was his friend. One of the few people he actually trusted.
He told her about the bar, about Sloane’s confidence and the way he’d made Jamie feel seen. About passing out in his car and waking up in his house. About breakfast and that kiss that had rewired his entire nervous system.
He didn’t mention William’s violence. Didn’t mention the bruise on his arm or the fear that still lived in his throat. Some things were too heavy to share, even with Emma.
When he finished, she was grinning like she’d won the lottery. “Jamie. This is amazing. You found a hot guy who brings you breakfast and doesn’t sound like a total psycho. Do you know how rare that is?”
“I know, but—”
“No buts. “Do you want to see him again?”
“Yeah. Which is the problem.” Jamie leaned against the wall, exhaustion catching up with him. “I barely know him. But I already miss him. How messed up is that?”
Emma’s expression softened. “That’s not messed up. That’s called liking someone.”
“I’m supposed to be smarter about this. After Chad. After William.” The name tasted bitter on his tongue. “I’m supposed to have standards.”
“You do have standards. This Sloane guy met them, apparently.” Emma squeezed his shoulder. “Just…don’t overthink it. See where it goes. If he turns out to be a disaster, I’ll help you hide the body.”
“That’s oddly sweet of you.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
Jamie glanced over his shoulder when the bell above the door jingled.