I don’t want to think about it.
“You got him off.”
Tension ebbs between us. It’s not entirely his fault. New Year’s Eve was a mess for the two of us. It’s probably best if we just put it behind us.
He heads down the stairs without another word, but I pause, hand on the door.
“Smith!”
He turns. “Yeah?”
“Thank you for being there tonight.” Upset shakes in my voice. “I don’t know what—”
“You’re welcome,” he replies, not making me finish. Our eyes holding for a long beat.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Sierra.”
I don’t wait to see him drive off, heading straight to bed. I do manage to sleep, although it’s restless, and I eventually get up at five, before daybreak. In the kitchen I grab a glass and fill it from the sink, looking out the window toward the horizon. My mother wanted windows all over this house. She wanted a view of the mountains, the sunrise and the sunset. The kitchen faces the east and I drink my water, waiting for the sun to rise from behind the hills.
Darkness fades and the sun begins its ascent, hot pink and glaring. A reflection bounces in the corner of my eye, something metal, and I blink.
Smith’s truck is still in the driveway. I lean forward, so close my nose is almost touching the glass. And he’s slouched against the window. My heart skitters. Is he dead? Hurt.
He shifts, yawning, and settles back against the glass. He’s asleep.
He stayed out there all night?
I didn’t even know where to begin with that.
I’m frozen, watching him, the sun breaking across the yard. The light rouses him, and I see him rub his eyes, blinking toward the house and then starting the ignition. My heart pounds as he slowly pulls out of the driveway and drives off, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.
He’s gone before the sun has fully risen.
I stand over the sink, wondering if what I’d just seen had really been there. Maybe I’d dreamed it.
Or maybe Smith doesn’t hate me as much as I thought he did.
8
Smith
If I’d been hoping for a discreet entrance at home, that was shot to hell when I see the lights on in the kitchen window. There’s time to turn around, but the scent of coffee and bacon hits me at the bottom of the steps. Hunger takes precedence.
Adrian sits at the table, a huge pile of food in front of him, while Holden pours himself a mug of coffee and Robbie leans against the countertop, scrolling down his phone.
Adrian sees me first. “What the fuck happened to your face?”
I head straight to the coffee maker. “There was an incident down at the bar.”
“Shit. You got in a fight?” Holden asks, moving aside. His eyes roam the bruise under my eye. “Did you get locked up?”
“No.” I pour the hot liquid into my mug. This is the part of the story I don’t want to tell. A fight, they’ll understand. Expect, really. My temper is pretty legendary, although it’s been more under control lately. Seeing that asshole on Sierra? I’d snapped.
“If you weren’t in lockup, then where were you?” Holden asks. A second later his eyes light up. “Were you with a girl?”
I glance at Robbie to see if he heard anything from his girlfriend. The set of his jaw tells me he does, and he wasn’t ready to let them know either. Fuck.