KYLE
Davy: Thank the stars for that.
Davy: Maybe we can all just go back to our normal lives now.
Across the coffee table, Dean strummed a guitar as Francesca leaned against his arm, eyes half-closed and content, a bag of gummy edibles open between them like it was a part of their normal Saturday night.
He’d been surprised to see Sloan reach for a couple, given how hesitant she’d been about drinking. Maybe she wanted to fit in.
Or maybe she’d needed something—anything—after the last twenty-four hours.
He couldn’t blame her.
Hell, the beers he’d drunk had done a decent job of loosening the knot that had almost choked him when she’d told him about the pills and the hospital. About how close she’d come to disappearing.
His shoulders tensed.
How?
How could that beautiful woman sitting beside him—smiling now, eyes softer—have ever believed the world would be better off without her?
Been so alone?
He’d always assumed after her dad’s company took off, Sloan had gone on to some glossy life, the kind strangers envied from a distance and decided was easy.
And would she ever get that low again?
What if I hadn’t been there last night when she felt alone?
The thought landed too heavily. Almost instinctively, his fingers twitched, wanting to reach for her and touch her. Steady himself on the warmth of her, solid and real. To remind himself that she was here. Still breathing. That she was okay.
When Sloan had broken up with him all those years ago, he’d gone home for the weekend. Liddy was away at school and Elle was in London, so he’d talked to Granny instead.
“Listen, buddy boy,” she said, eyes glinting with a ferocity typical of Granny.
“Do I think you loved her? Yes. And don’t let anyone tell you young love isn’t real.
It is. And it breaks your heart just as badly as us old, shriveled prunes who somehow think we feel more than you kids.
But that girl just lost her momma. She’s not ready to love anyone—she barely loves herself right now.
This isn’t about you. Let her go. She doesn’t need someone to help her numb the pain.
She needs someone who allows her to live and grow and find her way back to the sun. ”
His gaze focused on Dean’s fingers on the strings, the metallic twang filling the room with something that felt like both comfort and ache, sliding right into the soft spot behind Kyle’s ribs—the one that had been bruised for a month now, ever since the Mojave call.
Had Granny been wrong?
Should he have fought for Sloan? Stayed anyway? Tried to be there even when Sloan pushed him away?
Had he abandoned her when she needed him the most?
He’d let her go.
But had she ever found her way back to the sun the way Granny had said she would? She didn’t look like someone who’d been living in the light for a long time.
She looked like someone who’d been surviving.
“Your turn, Popeye,” Sloan said, breaking into his thoughts.
He rubbed his cheek, dragged back into the room. “Is it really that swollen?”
“Enough.” Sloan grinned that spoke of teasing rather than sympathy. Which was good. Sympathy made him feel like glass.
Francesca cracked one eye open. “You really should have put some honey on it like I told you. My grandma was the queen of home remedies, and that one really works for bruises.”
Dean glanced up and shook his head slowly as Kyle rolled the die. “Those off-piste jumps are always the ones that get you.”
“He was just trying to impress the girl,” Francesca sing-songed, then shot Sloan a wink.
Kyle shot Francesca a look. “I didn’t—”
“Nah,” Dean cut in, saving him. “I know Kyle. He chases his highs with adrenaline.” He chuckled. “Didn’t you see that episode where he was bungee jumping in Switzerland? I sure as hell wouldn’t do that one. And if you pushed me . . . well, let’s just say I’d be praying I wore brown pants that day.”
Sloan snorted as she gave Kyle an amazed look. “So, you really do make YouTube videos?”
Francesca’s mouth opened in theatrical outrage. “You haven’t seen him?”
Sloan shook her head, looking suddenly self-conscious. “I—no.”
“He’s got side quests that all of us normies just dream of.” Francesca had already started crawling toward the side table. She grabbed the remote and clicked on the TV. “Look,” she said, pointing at the screen. “You’re on our shortcuts, Kyle.”
Kyle covered his eyes. “God. I hate watching myself.”
Sloan grabbed his forearm and tugged it down like she was physically pulling him back into the moment.
The contact shot another spark up his skin—nothing dramatic, just enough to make him hyperaware of the fact that she was that close.
“Oh wow, you weren’t kidding,” she said, scanning the screen. “Look at all those episodes.”
He moved the game piece on the board. “Why don’t we just pretend we watched it and finish the game?”
“Are you kidding? This is much more entertaining,” Francesca said, scrolling through episodes with glee. “How’s your ass, by the way? Recovered from landing in the cactus?”
Great. Apparently, Dean and Francesca really did keep up with his show. “Fine, thanks,” he said with a shake of his head.
“You fell into a cactus?” Sloan turned toward him with wide eyes.
Dean rolled his eyes. “He’s a moron. He was wearing shorts in the desert.”
“Actually, Tomas threw a football, and I just didn’t look before I jumped to catch it.”
“They caught it on video, you know.” Francesca scrolled to the episode. “Here, watch.” His voice blasted through the speakers, narrating the opening.
Kyle winced.
Dean set the guitar down and took a pull from his beer. “It’s better than watching video of yourself playing an instrument. You know what they say about the faces guitarists make when they’re lost to the music.”
Francesca’s eyes sparkled. “Can confirm the rumors are true.”
“That is way more information than I needed. I’m never watching you play again,” Kyle said with a laugh. Sloan’s laugh joined his a beat later, and the sound did something to him. Something stupidly tender.
They watched long enough for Kyle to fully regret ever agreeing to be filmed and somewhere in the middle of it, Sloan shifted closer on the couch, her leg bumping his knee.
She didn’t move away.
“You’re really good at this,” Sloan said, sneaking a glance back at him. “I’m impressed.”
“What, playing a country bumpkin? Yeah, it’s a real talent.”
“You are so clearly not a country bumpkin,” Francesca said with a roll of her eyes. “It just comes off that way because Tomas has that hot English accent.”
“I’m right here, hon,” Dean said with a snicker.
“Oh, come on. You know I think you’re hot. But so is Tomas. The whole reason Kyle’s show is successful has a lot to do with the eye candy featured. That’s why Kyle has teenage girls commenting on all his social posts.”
“And here I thought it was because of the locations we were featuring,” Kyle said dryly.
Sloan’s mouth twitched as she scanned his face. “Oh, I bet the girls are obsessed with your social media.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t even get on it.”
“You don’t get on it ever?” Francesca asked with a look of surprise.
“Nope. I have a social media manager.” Kyle stretched his legs out. “I found out the hard way what a dark and ugly place the interwebs are. So now I don’t touch it.”
Francesca gave him a chagrined smile. “Lots of women sending you unwanted pics, eh? That’s why I don’t let groupies near this one.” She tilted her head at Dean.
“Not just women, I’m sure,” Dean said and squeezed his wife’s shoulder.
Kyle huffed a laugh. “That and the fact that when people don’t have to look you in the eye, they let their mean side come out a lot more easily.”
“I bet.” Sloan’s gaze softened in a way that made him uncomfortable.
Like she’d just seen straight through the persona to the bruise underneath.
She tore her gaze away. “Are you guys always this loud when you watch TV?” Sloan asked, glancing back with a laugh.
“Because I gotta admit, it’s sort of strange to hear you narrating up there and speaking behind me at the same time. ”
“Oh, here’s the part!” Francesca paused the TV. “Look at the expression on Kyle’s face on that one.”
The four of them looked . . . and immediately lost it.
“Aw, that had to hurt,” Sloan said through her laughter, with mirth dancing in her eyes.
“Hurt like hell. Then I had to spread glue on my skin and peel the tiny spines out. I will say, it’s not nearly as bad as a jellyfish sting. I got those on a trip last year to Hawaii.”
“Oh, I remember that!” Francesca said. “Didn’t Tomas offer to pee on you?”
“He offered. I didn’t accept.”
“That’s a myth anyway,” Dean said, standing. “I hear it actually can make it worse. So, it’s a good thing you didn’t accept his offer because it wouldn’t have worked.”
“Yeah, that and the fact that it means Tomas didn’t piss on me,” Kyle said dryly.
Francesa cackled a laugh.
Kyle arched a brow at Dean. “You turning in?”
Dean stretched and nodded. “I’m beat. Come on, Franny. Let’s let our guests go to bed before they accuse us of wearing them out and then not letting them sleep.”
“But I haven’t finished showing Sloan Kyle’s top ten most embarrassing travel mishaps.”
“Fran . . .” Dean warned.
“His most daring stunts?” she pleaded.
“Come to bed, lady.” Dean reached for her hand.
She huffed, then took Dean’s hands and let him pull her up.
“Fine.” She winked at Kyle. “You’re off the hook.
” Then she turned to Sloan and handed her the remote.
“But if you do find yourself wanting something to watch, check out the rest of that Mojave Desert episode. Kyle’s not in it for much longer, but it makes you realize what a good egg he is. ”
Kyle’s chest squeezed, realizing what part she meant.
He’d ducked out of filming that day. Tomas had carried the rest of the episode while Kyle did a brief wrap-up and admitted Granny had died. Probably the most unguarded he’d been on camera. Ever.
No way in hell I’m watching that.