Chapter 44
CHAPTER
FORTY-FOUR
ASPEN
Heat from Emmett wraps around me as he steps out of the camper beside me. The last light bleeds out behind the peaks, the pink reflections replaced by deep purple shadows. This piece of land is heartbreakingly beautiful in its seclusion.
“Oh, shit, it’s later than I thought.”
“Worth it,” he says.
Yeah, it was. Orgasms aside, today changed something. Before, I wanted to keep Emmett. Now, letting him go is going to break something in me beyond repair no matter who or what comes after.
I want to stay in this moment for as long as I can.
“What if we didn’t drive back tonight?” He looks from me to the tire, so I add, “It’s already getting dark. Changing this tire is going to take a while. We could crash here tonight—it’s not like we need to get back.”
“Are you okay with that?”
I twist into him, winding my arms around his waist and looking up at him. “More than okay with it.”
“The tire can wait until morning. Unless you’re eager to get your hands dirty tonight.”
“Actually, I’m not sure I could lift a tire after the ride you took me on.”
His chest vibrates beneath my cheeks, the noise somewhere between a rough laugh and a hum of appreciation.
“Did I wear you out?”
“I mean . . . I’m not ready for bed, but manual labor sounds like a bad time right now.”
“I’ve got something in mind. How do you feel about those sandwiches under the stars? I’ve got an extra blanket we can lay down on the roof. Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll even get a light show.”
How do I feel?
Like it’s romantic as hell.
An impromptu picnic in one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been with a man that I can’t stop thinking about. Yeah, I’m on board with that.
“That sounds perfect.”
“It kind of does.” His palms rub circles over my back, eclipsing it with each sweep. “Are you warm enough now?”
“Yeah.”
Thank god for my practical nature. Now that we’re staying, the change of clothes for the drive home, including the leggings and long-sleeved shirt I’m wearing under his pilfered sweatshirt is really coming in handy.
The hoodie that I snagged from the camper when I got dressed is soft, smells like him, with a hint of smoke, and has his unit patch printed on the back.
The one I borrowed earlier was a recent purchase from Timberline Peak; this one is all him, and he’s never getting it back.
Emmett ducks back inside, and I watch from outside as he lifts the bench seat at the small table and pulls out a blanket.
My hand in his, blanket tucked under his arm, he leads me to the cooler.
Dropping his grip on me, he removes the top, digging through it until he finds the sandwiches, drinks, veggies, and cheese from the General Store.
I take the drinks from him and follow him to the back of the van.
“Wait here for a second.”
What are you up to, Emmett Slate?
The face I pull must telegraph my thoughts.
“Just humor me.”
“Be careful,” I say.
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll climb the ladder one-handed.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, because falling is going to be great for your recovery when you’re so close to the finish line.”
He throws the blanket over his shoulder and holds out the food for me to take from him.
With everything piled in my arms, I watch as he climbs the ladder with the ease of someone who is pain free. When he’s on top of the van, he shakes out the blanket and spreads it out, then gets on his stomach, extending his arms to me so I can hand up the drinks and food.
“Now you,” he says, scooting back and waiting for me.
When I get to the top rung, he reaches for my hand, pulling me to him. I end up in his lap.
“It’s like you’re trying to get hurt,” I grumble.
“Nah, I just feel good.”
He says it like it caught him off guard. Like he can’t remember the last time his mind and body felt this good.
My hands land on his shoulders, but they don’t stay there long.
I can’t resist the urge to sink my fingers into the hair his grandma called too long.
My knees brace the side of his thighs, but unlike earlier, there’s nothing sensual about our position.
It’s just comfortable. Touching him settles something in me.
He exhales slowly, through his nose, as my fingers press into the base of his skull, rubbing. His hands stay on waist, but his eyes drift past my shoulder, toward the darkening ridge.
“Everyone needs good days once in a while. It’s okay to just enjoy it,” I say softly.
“I’m very much enjoying it. Having you here made that a given.”
“Your grandma is the best.” There’s a pang of grief for my own grandma. “She’s sweet and funny. More chatty than you, but I suppose that’s not saying much.”
“Rory was like that too.” His warm palms find their way under my sweatshirt, and his thumbs stroke over my hipbones. “I wish you could have met her.”
His voice softens around her name instead of breaking beneath the weight of it.
“Me too,” I whisper as I swallow around the lump rising in my throat. “I’d like it if you told me more about her. If you want to.”
He goes quiet so long I wonder if I pushed too hard.
Then a rough breath leaves him.
“She didn’t deserve what happened.” His jaw tightens hard enough to hurt just looking at it. “I keep thinking if it had to be one of us, it should’ve been me.”
“Emmett—”
“She was better than me.” The words come harsher now, like they’ve been clawing to get out for years.
“Smarter. Kinder. Fuck, she could make friends with anybody. She made every place feel lighter just by walking into it.” His gaze drops somewhere over my shoulder instead of at me. “She was the closest thing I ever had to home.”
His voice cracks. “And then she was gone.”
“And if she were here. If things were reversed, she’d be saying the same thing about you.”
“It was my fault. I started the fire.”
He’s barely looking at me when he says it. He says it like he’s repeated it to himself so many times it stopped sounding like words years ago. Somewhere along the way, the fire stopped being something that happened and became who he believes he is.
My hands stop moving in his hair. “You didn’t mean to,” I say quietly. I know that much has to be true.
He lets out a short, humorless breath. “Intent doesn’t change the outcome.” His thumbs pause against my hips, then start again, slower, like he needs the motion to keep him going.
“I was hiding out,” he says. “Somebody at school said my parents turned to drugs because it was better than loving a worthless kid like me.” His teeth grind.
My chest pulls tight.
“My grandpa could always tell when something was wrong, and he wasn’t the kind to leave it alone. The man could needle you until you talked just to shut him up.” Emmett swallows, the fading light carving deeper shadows into his face. He looks completely wrecked.
“But I was too angry. Too scared of what might come out if he pushed. So I snuck out to the barn.”
He pauses, and the quiet around us feels too big.
“I wasn’t thinking,” he says. “I just wanted out of the house. Out of my head.” His jaw tightens. “So I stole a couple cigarettes from a ranch hand, then hid in the barn and smoked. When I was done, I crushed it out with my boot. Or thought I did.”
His eyes fall to the blanket between us. “The barn was filled with hay, old boards, and dust. It went up in a blink.”
I have to focus on breathing fearing if I don’t I’ll stop altogether or hyperventilate. I can feel his pain, see his guilt, taste his regret. He wears it like it’s his skin. I’ve always known that, but knowing why makes it more potent.
“I left.” His voice breaks.
My stomach twists.
“She was supposed to be inside studying.” His throat works. “Turns out she’d snuck out to the barn to see her horse.”
Pain lances straight through my chest.
Not because I blame him.
Because it’s suddenly impossible not to understand why he blames himself.
“I walked back toward the house and smelled smoke before I saw it.” His jaw tightens, eyes distant now, replaying something he never really left. “At first, I thought somebody else was burning trash. Then I heard it—wood popping. Animals losing their minds.”
His hands press harder at my waist without realizing it.
“The barn was already glowing from inside—smoke pouring through the seams. I ran . . .” His voice drops. “Yelling for help as I went.”
Listening to him recount the details without losing it is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I think he needs to tell me.
“It took a few minutes to realize Rory wasn’t in her room like we thought.” His eyes finally meet mine. They’re wrecked. Open in a way that hurts to see. “That’s when it hit me.”
His voice barely holds.
“She was in the stables.” My hands cradle his face before I can stop myself.
He keeps going.
“It was already too late. The barn was unstable.” His mouth trembles, just once. “But I couldn’t just leave her.”
“I couldn’t get to her, not even close. The smoke was too thick. I barely made it inside before they yanked me out,” he whispers. “They should’ve let me go with her.”
The words hollow me out.
Because he means them.
Even now.
My thumbs brush over his cheeks, grounding him the only way I know how.
“Emmett—”
“It was my fault.”
The conviction in his voice steals the air from the camper.
“Emmett—”
“They ruled it an accident,” he says roughly. “But that doesn’t change anything for me.”
His eyes finally meet mine again, shattered clean through.
“I pay for it every day.”
“Oh, Emmett.”
His laugh is small and broken. “It gets worse.”
Fear turns cold and heavy in my stomach.
That doesn’t seem possible.
“An ember from the barn landed on the house, spreading the fire. They were stretched too thin after taking me in and let the homeowners insurance default. They lost the ranch. The house. Rory. Everything.” His jaw clenches. “All because I was pissed about something some stupid kid said.”
When he’s done, the silence feels as endless as the dark sky.
I lean forward until my forehead touches his.
“You were just a kid,” I whisper.
“So was Rory.”
His lashes are damp when he blinks, the grief inside himself barely held back.
“My grandpa took the only job he could get working swing shifts at the mill doing maintenance. Did you know that swing shifts reduce your life expectancy and increase your risk of heart disease?”
“No,” I say forcefully. “You were a kid trying to escape pain, Emmett. What happened after wasn’t a punishment.”
His eyes close. “If I’d gone into the system, they’d still have Rory—she’d still be here with Grandma.”
A tear slips free, catching in his lashes.
He doesn’t wipe it away.
I don’t either.
I press my lips to his temple, slow and grounding. His hands curl into the back of my shirt like he might fall if he lets go. For a long second, neither of us speaks.
“Now you know.”
And I know now—deep in my aching chest—that loving Emmett means loving someone who still thinks he should’ve died twenty years ago.
And I don’t know how to fight a ghost he’s spent half his life feeding.
Knowing all that, though, I still can’t make myself let him go.
Because that’s not how love works.