8. Kyle
KYLE
The cold woke Kyle long before the sun did. That and the sharp complaint from his hip bone that had spent the night pressed against a floor that was apparently made from spite.
He lay there blinking at the dim cabin, listening to the wind howl outside.
Of course, it didn’t matter too much because he suddenly had no plans for the rest of the day. The bride from today’s wedding is sleeping on my bed and has no intention of going back.
What in the hell was he going to tell Davy?
He doubted Davy would care if he did his own thing if there was no wedding to attend, but would she be pissed that he’d failed to mention his connection to Sloan?
Or worse yet, would she think he’d somehow involved himself in what was sure to be a debacle back at the hotel?
What if she thought he’d made a play for his ex-girlfriend?
The irony was, the only play he’d made last night was offering her his bed and then punishing himself for it by sleeping on the floor like a martyr.
Scrubbing the sleep from his eyes, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, trying to will himself to get up and start a fire in the wood stove. If he didn’t, though, he really might freeze to death, and that would be the saddest headline imaginable.
Man Dies of Chivalry
His lips quirked.
How did these things seem to happen to him?
Elle had always called it Winnick luck—like it was a charm the family carried around whether they wanted it or not.
She had it in spades, more than either he or Liddy did.
But he could see it in his own life, too.
Sometimes it looked like a blessing. Like when Liddy’s sister-in-law, Isla, had dragged him into her travel show and the Travelog Channel had helped him make it a full-time job.
Sometimes it looked like getting cactus in your ass on camera.
Granny had also believed in that Winnick luck, too. She’d probably planted the idea in Elle’s head, come to think of it. She’d been a tough old bird. An adventurer with gumption who didn’t believe in coincidence but did believe people manifested the life they decided to have.
God, I miss her.
A lump rose in his throat.
Granny had been like a second mother to them half the time, putting them all back together when they fell apart. As she’d gotten older, she’d needed more help. Elle—the only one of them who still lived in Nashville—mentioned it whenever Granny had come up in phone calls.
Granny didn’t ask for help though.
Didn’t want to be nuisance , she said.
And he hadn’t been listening.
He let himself be lulled by the idea that there would always be another tomorrow, another chance to say I love you , another call he’d return.
Hadn’t let his brain wrap around the truth that, at some point in everyone’s life, there would be one final Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, or whatever, and then that would be it.
No more sunrises and sunsets. No more goodbyes.
Enough. He couldn’t just lie here and drown. His toes were numb and Granny wouldn’t greet him at the pearly gates with enthusiasm if he died of hypothermia out of pure self-pity. She’d probably beat him with St. Peter’s book instead.
He curled his toes in his thick woolen socks, which had only helped marginally, then he peeled himself from the floor and shuffled toward the wood stove. The fire caught quickly, flames licking up, warmth beginning to spread through the cabin.
He crouched in front of it, trying to warm his hands, breathing in smoke and pine and the faint scent of . . . expensive shampoo that did not belong in Fort Paradise.
“You up already?” Sloan’s sleep-roughened voice came from behind him.
“Sort of.” Exhaustion burned his eyes. Truth was, he hadn’t slept well on the floor. Maybe it was his own damned fault for offering her the bed in the first place and, later, for rejecting her offer to share. Of course, if he hadn’t offered her the bed, he couldn’t live with himself.
The bed frame squeaked and he glanced back. Sloan swung her bare legs out of the sleeping bag and sat up, hair loose and messy, cheeks pink from warmth. She looked . . . different like this. Less affluent bride, more the girl he remembered stealing kisses from behind the bleachers.
His brain immediately tried to self-destruct.
He looked away.
“You going back to sleep?” she asked.
“Maybe. It’s still early.” He checked his watch. “Just after six thirty.”
She said nothing, but he heard her rise and cross toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut, and he exhaled.
He leaned over, dragging his camp stool closer to where he’d been squatting. Easing himself into the stool, he sat back in it and stretched his legs out. Maybe this would have been a better sleeping arrangement in the first place. Hell of a lot more comfortable anyway. You idiot.
The toilet flushed. A few moments later, the door opened. Sloan tiptoed back toward the bed and paused by the clothes he’d laid out on the floor as a makeshift bed. Lifting the parka, she brought it to him, then draped it over his legs.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, genuinely surprised.
She didn’t linger. Just hurried back to the bed and slid into the sleeping bag. “You couldn’t have been comfortable on the floor.”
“I wasn’t.”
She rolled toward him and propped her head on her elbow, studying him like she was trying to decide what version of him existed now. “I would have shared, you know.”
He raised a brow. “Call me old fashioned, but I was trying to be respectful.” That was a good enough excuse for turning her down.
After all, she was engaged to another man up to twenty-four hours ago. Strangely, though, she didn’t seem devastated that she’d left him at the altar.
None of your business, Winnick.
Her mouth twitched. “Respectful.” She tasted the word like she wasn’t sure it belonged in the same sentence as Kyle Winnick.
He gave her a mock-offended look. “You don’t think I’m respectful?”
“Oh, I have a very clear memory of what type of gentleman you were when we were younger.” Her voice stayed dry, but her eyes didn’t.
God.
Just like that, he remembered what it was like to be tangled in sheets with her, her naked flesh against his own.
Kyle felt heat crawl up his neck. “Well. Lucky for you, I’m a changed man. I have a rental tux and everything.”
She let out a small, low laugh more breath than sound. “Maybe you are different. It’s been eight years, and we were just kids.” Her gaze drifted, then landed back on him. “But I bet some things are the same.”
“Like?”
Sloan laid her head back down on the pillow, but kept her eyes trained on his. “I bet you probably still eat giant lumps of peanut butter on your Cheerios.”
Kyle stared at her. His lips twitched, despite himself. “How do you even remember that?”
She shrugged slightly, the sleeping bag rustling. “I remember a lot of stupid things.”
He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well. I’m sure you still make those amazing oatmeal raisin cookies.”
Her expression flickered—something like surprise, then a shadow. “I . . . can’t remember the last time I baked anything. We have a private chef.” Her throat bobbed. “Or had.” She tugged the sleeping bag closer. “I don’t have anything now.”
Somehow, he doubted that. He might not have kept up with Sloan, but her father’s company was a different story. Actaeon Tech was a major tech corporation, one that he’d known more about while he’d been working in the IT field.
But maybe Sloan didn’t think of her father’s wealth as her own, the way he’d imagined she would.
She looked smaller, wrapped in his sleeping bag, in his cabin, in a life that had apparently shattered overnight.
“I used to drive past your old house,” he said quietly, “and wonder where your dad had moved after he sold it. People said it was a mansion. He might be able to spare a room for you.”
Sloan blinked slowly. “My dad and I don’t get along that well.”
Huh. That was a change. Sloan had always been a daddy’s girl. Her older sister, Penelope, had often complained about the blatant favoritism.
Kyle didn’t know what to say to that, though, so what came out was the thing he was actually worried about. “Did he hit you or something?”
“My father?”
“No, your fiancé. Or ex-fiancé. Whatever he is now.”
A few moments of silence ticked by. Kyle’s stomach dropped. God damn it.
“He was cheating on me,” Sloan said softly. She didn’t move, but her words were soft without expression. Like she was trying to package them in a way that made them easy enough to hold.
“Someone gave me an envelope last night. Printed proof. Sexts . . . and more.” Her gaze held his. “Right after I bumped into you in the elevator, actually.”
Ohhhh.
Kyle blew out a breath. “Fuck.”
Now he really couldn’t be an ass to her—not that he’d been considering it—but he was glad now that he’d offered her the bed.
Sloan’s eyes flickered over his face, like she’d expected some other reaction.
“God, Sloan. I’m sorry,” he managed. He didn’t know how to elaborate on that.
All those cliché lines like better you found out now probably wouldn’t help soothe her aching heart, and he didn’t have to have been cheated on to know that things like that never helped.
Just like when people said things like, “She’s in a better place,” to him about Granny.
“I haven’t decided what I think or feel about any of it,” she said in a tight voice. “I did go to a clinic to get tested last night and that was . . . surreal. Violating. I think I’m angrier about that than anything else right now.”
He clenched his jaw. “Did he say anything?”
“I didn’t confront him.” She stared at the ceiling. “I just left. You’re the first person I’ve told.”
The fire popped and he let it be his excuse to break eye contact with her, her words slipping under his ribs and lodging there. What?
Of all the people in her life—friends, bridesmaids, her sister—she told him first.
Why?
And why did that feel like being handed something breakable?
“So,” she went on, bitterness bleeding into her voice, “if you ever wondered if karma got me for dumping you and breaking your heart, there’s your answer. She’s a bitch with claws, apparently.”
He lifted his chin, giving her a cool look. “Do you think you deserve what he did to you?”
“No, but—”
“Then don’t say that.” His voice came out firmer than he intended. “You don’t get to blame this on teenage Sloan. Or God. Or karma. Or me.”
She stared at him, something unsteady in her eyes.
He exhaled, softer. “Look. I’m not asking you to rewrite history. But I’m not going to let you sit here and tell yourself you earned being betrayed.”
Sloan’s lashes lowered. “Can I at least say I’m sorry?”
He released an exaggerated sigh. “Will that make you feel better?”
“Yes.”
“Then fine.” He waved a hand like he was granting a royal decree. “Apology accepted. Officially. With no refunds.”
A weak laugh escaped her. “It’s just weird, you know? All these years and then you show up the night my life blows up.” Her mouth tightened, her face sobering. “It’s almost like God wanted you to witness it.”
Kyle stood and dragged the camp stool closer, stopping a few feet from the bed before he sat. “What nonsense are you babbling, woman?”
Sloan’s brows lifted. “Excuse me?”
“I’m going to say this once,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “so pay attention. What happened with your fiancé? It’s not your fault. Your ex is a dick. He managed that all by himself.”
Sloan’s lips parted, then pressed together, fighting a smile.
“And you,” he continued, “did nothing to cause it. You didn’t manifest his wandering penis with your negative energy.”
A startled sound—half laugh, half choke—escaped her.
Kyle sat back, satisfied. “There. My professional opinion. I won’t even charge you this time.”
She covered part of her face with her hand. “God.”
“Exactly.” He pointed at her. “Don’t give Him credit for Evan’s stupidity.”
Sloan dropped her hand, eyes shining a little. “I just don’t know what to do now.”
“Do you have to know right this second?”
“No.”
“Great.” He grinned and spread his hands. “Then we’re done panicking until at least eight a.m. You can sleep, then we’ll figure out a place to grab breakfast. Unless you want to eat my oatmeal, which is entirely up to you. One step at a time.”
Sloan watched him for a moment. “You’re a really nice guy, you know that?”
“Oh, man, do I ever.” He smiled and leaned farther back into his seat, stretching out. “I’ve got a sore hip from sleeping on the cold floor and a permanent friend zone sign tattooed on my forehead.”
She rolled her eyes. “No way.”
“Sweetheart, I’m so popular with the ladies that the woman who brought me as a date to your wedding would rather hook up with other chicks.”
She huffed out a quiet laugh. “But that’s not because of you. If anything, it’s just proof of how nice you are—that you were willing to come be here for her, knowing how her parents are.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m an excellent friend,” he said. “I show up, I smile, I wear the tux, I get emotionally ambushed by my ex.”
She yawned, exhaustion finally winning, but her features had softened as though he’d managed to calm her. “So, you’re okay with me staying around for a few more hours?”
“Let’s just say that my plans for the day have changed.”
“Ugh.” Sloan dragged a hand down her face. “Don’t remind me.”
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you need . . . until I check out tomorrow. Then I kick you to the curb. Lovingly.”
“Wow, so generous—”
A sharp knock rang through the cabin.
Kyle exchanged a look with Sloan, but his shoulders had already tensed. Why would someone be knocking on his cabin at this hour?
He stood and strode toward the door, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach as he glanced out the peephole.
Sloan’s fiancé stood on the porch.
What the actual fuck?