My heart thumps against my rib cage. I tilt my head, cutting slowly to make sure it’s all even. “And now?”

  There’s a long pause.

  “Now I guess I care.” A faint blush spreads up the back of his neck, but Rowan stares forward at that wall like his life depends on it. “What some people think, I mean. One person.”

  Holy moly.

  “Your sister?” I guess anyway, though I know full well who he means. “Tess?”

  Rowan grunts in disagreement. “She’s my baby sister. She has to love me.”

  Those words hang in the quiet attic air, while both of us stop breathing in the golden sunshine. Love him? Love him? A pipe gurgles on the wall, and a blackbird flutters onto the windowsill outside.

  Rowan’s hands are balled into fists where they rest on his thighs.

  I drag a shaky breath in through my nose.

  “I didn’t—I meant—”

  “Stop fidgeting.” The flat side of the scissors rap against his shoulder, and Rowan shuts his mouth, jaw tense. “This is a delicate operation, Wild Man. Sit still.”

  We can dig into that veiled confession once I’m done transforming the famed cryptid of Starlight Ridge, and no sooner.

  Otherwise my hands will never stop trembling long enough to finish this.

  Eight

  Rowan

  My head feels so unburdened, it might pop off and float up to the ceiling. Can’t stop touching my nape and the back of my head, feeling the empty space, the shorn locks. When I turn my head from side to side, it’s so light I almost feel dizzy.

  “It’s rough,” Evie says, biting her lip as she watches me in the bathroom mirror. We’re both squeezed into the tiny room together, my hip jammed against the sink, her heat against my back as she peers over my shoulder. She winces as I turn my head from side to side, examining her work, like she’s scared I won’t like it after all.

  Bullshit.

  Despite Evie’s doubts, my dark hair is neater than it’s been in a long, long time. It’s cut way shorter than it was, but still long enough to curl around my ears, because according to her, You should leave something for your dates to tug on.

  Dates!

  She winked at me when she said that, her green eyes twinkling. But there was something underneath it too, some vulnerable hidden question—a question I intend to answer for her before the day is through.

  “It’s good,” I say, my voice rough. “Really good. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” Evie traces a gentle line down my spine, her fingertip moving from the towel to my bare skin, from the knob of my neck all the way to the small of my back—but her gaze is on mine. Like her hand is moving of its own accord, acting instinctively while she chats to me. Sparks skitter everywhere she touches, and it’s hard to breathe. “I’m about to betray you, Wild Man. You might never forgive me for this.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yup.” Evie nods at the shaving kit balanced on the small shelf above the sink. Her pink toothbrush and tube of toothpaste are in a plastic cup beside it, along with a travel sized bottle of mouthwash, and for some reason, the sight makes me ache. These domestic details; this peek behind the scenes. I’m so hungry for every ounce of information about this girl.

  “I’m gonna go out there and barricade the door, and I won’t let you out until you nix the beard. It’s ruining the whole vibe for me.”

  “The vibe?” My grin comes easily. “What vibe is that?”

  “Sexy mountain man.”

  My heart lurches at her words, but Evie smiles and holds my gaze in the scratched mirror. She’s steady, reassuring. A safe port from the constant storm in my head.

  The porcelain creaks as I squeeze the sink edge. The shower drips in its cubicle.

  Sexy mountain man.

  God. Yeah. I want to be that for her. For Evie, and no one else.

  I need her to need me. Like I need her. Don’t want to be alone in this restless aching I feel around her anymore. Don’t want to be the only one choking for air when our bodies brush.

  Don’t want to be the ragged, unkempt Wild Man of Starlight Ridge for another single day. Finally, I have a better goal in my life.

  “You don’t need to lock me in.” My quiet words bounce off the chipped bathroom tiles, echoing strangely around us. I reach for the shaving supplies as I talk, drawing out the clippers I’ll use to buzz my jaw first. “I’ll shave it off either way, so you may as well stick around. Tell me about your city. Tell me what you do for fun. Tell me anything, Evie.”

  The button slides under my thumb, and the clippers buzz loudly in my hand, the vibrations rattling my bones. Butterscotch eyes stare in the mirror, rapt, as I lift the clippers to my jaw.

  We both watch as the first chunk of beard falls into the sink.

  Both let out relieved laughs.

  Then Evie starts talking, her sweet voice filling the quiet as I lift the clippers once again.

  * * *

  Hours later, the bar is only half full, with empty booths and a short line for drinks, and still a headache pulses behind my left eyeball. My body is hot under my clothes, and my skin is itchy. Uncomfortable.

  If Evie weren’t here, sitting opposite me with a shy smile, I’d be sprinting for the hills right now, tearing off my shirt like an animal.

  It’s this crowd. The press of people, of humanity, even if we’re not truly crammed in cheek by jowl. This is more people than I’ve seen in months, all gathered here in one room, and the loud buzz of their conversation drills into my temples and makes me wince.

  Every time someone looks over at us, their gaze bores into me—even though more often than not, it’s Evie they’re drawn to. And who can blame them? She showered and changed not long ago, washing off the dust from our day spent together wandering the town, then wrapped those perfect curves in a teal shift dress. With her long, red waves, she looks like a heart attack on legs.

  I’m definitely on the verge of a cardiac event. Every time I look at her, my pulse accelerates.

  She leans forward now, rolling her glass between both palms. The ice clinks in her ginger ale, the liquid swilling side to side and sparkling in the dim light, and it’s almost exactly the same color as her eyes.

  “Are you sure you’re alright?” Evie nudges my foot beneath the table. “We can leave. Go back to the room, or find somewhere quieter. Whatever you like.”

  What I like is watching her pink lips purse around that straw whenever she takes a sip. Especially when her cheeks hollow like that, sending a bolt of lust through my body.

  “Ginger ale,” I grit out, forcing my tongue to form words. Conversation. Conversation, damn it. “You sure you don’t want something stronger?”

  Evie grins and shakes her head. She’s still leaning forward, elbows propped on the table, but the strain around her eyes eases when I speak. She’s worried about me, and I both love and hate that.

  “Nope, I don’t drink. Never have. I cause enough chaos when I’m clear headed, thank you.”

  Now that I can believe.

  Quiet spreads between us—companionable at first, but then it stretches on too long. Turns sour.

  “You hate this,” Evie says softly after a while. Fuck, she sounds so sad. “You hate being here, don’t you?”

  And I know I should be speaking more, should be asking her questions and cracking jokes if I want this to be a real date, but it’s like the noise and heat and closeness of the crowd is pressing in all around me, stealing my focus and setting me on edge. If I grip the table any harder, I’ll crack the wood.

  “Let’s go,” Evie says, her voice calm and clear. Gone is the panicky chatterbox from the mountain. My city girl stands tall when she slides out of the booth, and she doesn’t hesitate before touching my shoulder. “Rowan. Come on, let’s leave.”

  Leave. Yes.

  Need to get away from all this noise. This heat, this hubbub, other people’s breath in the air; the buzz of electric lights and the itchy sensation of their eyes on me. Need a fresh breeze on my cheeks and packed dirt under my feet and to rip this damn shirt off already before the collar strangles me.

  My limbs are stiff as I unfold from the booth. Evie coaxes me all the while, tugging gently on my arm, murmuring soothing nonsense like she’s dealing with a spooked horse.

  She deserves so much better than this.

  Something glimmers in the corner of my eye: it’s the light catching on Evie’s glass, on her barely-touched ginger ale. The drink I bought her but couldn’t let her finish.

  Despair pricks my bones, fresh and icy and more powerful than I’ve felt in a long time. Evie tugs me through the bar and I let her.

  See, this is why I live on the mountain. This is why I keep away.

  I’m too broken for anything else.

  The stars are bright when we stumble out onto the street, strewn overhead like a glittering blanket tossed across the mountain range. My ears ring from all the noise, and my breaths are ragged as Evie drags me away down the sidewalk.

  Somewhere, a few streets away, a car backfires.

  Panic surges, white and hot and blinding.

  When I come back to myself, we’re in an alleyway between buildings, the distant thud of music from the bar still audible. Evie’s pressed up against a painted wall, her body tense, and I’m plastered against her. Protecting her from phantom gunfire with my body.

  “It’s okay,” she’s saying, even as she trembles against my chest. Her cool palm cups my cheek, stroking my newly shaven jaw. “It was just a car. Rowan, it was a car.”

  When I stagger back, that icy despair drills deeper, chilling my insides. What was I thinking, coming back here? Even for a night?

  “Fuck. Evie.” My words are thick, my tongue heavy in my mouth. There’s a metallic tang at the back of my throat: the taste of panic. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have done that.”

  “It’s okay.” The tension slowly leaves her shoulders, and Evie pushes off the wall, stepping after me. Stepping close. Why would she do that? Isn’t she scared of me now, after seeing me lose control?

  But my brave chatterbox places both palms on my chest, rubbing soft circles until my ragged heartbeat slows. She comes so close that our boots touch, so close her cinnamon scent fills my lungs—and even though I know I’ve already blown it, my body starts to unwind at her touch.

  “You don’t like sudden noises, huh?”

  Jaw tight, I shake my head.

  “Military?” Evie guesses.

  A taut nod. Hate talking about this stuff, but after this disaster of a date, I sure owe her an explanation. Even so, when I finally force myself to speak, my throat is so tight that the words barely get out.

  “Served for eight years. Came home a while back, but I haven’t… haven’t been right since. That’s why I…”

  “Why you moved up to the mountain,” Evie finishes for me, still rubbing my chest. It’s ridiculous how much it helps; how much it soothes me. What am I, a damn cat? “I understand. But Rowan…”

  The breeze lifts her hair, dancing the red locks over her shoulders. Her scent swirls all around me, cleansing me from the inside out.

  “You could still come back,” Evie says, tugging softly on a fistful of shirt. “It’s not just crowded bars or empty caves. Those aren’t the only options; it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. There’s a middle ground, you know?”

  Can’t hear this right now. Can’t think about this when I’m so heart sore.

  Because this was supposed to be a date. Our date.

  My chance with Evie Daniels, and I blew it.

  A rough sound escapes my throat when I cup her soft, freckled cheek. In another world, another timeline… I could have held her like this. Could have gripped her waist with my other hand like this, and tilted her head back like this, and pressed close until we shared the same air. When I draw in her oxygen, fresh and warm from her lungs, my head spins.

  “Rowan,” Evie whispers, her skin so pale in the moonlight. Her small hand comes up to cover mine, holding it to her cheek. “Don’t give up on this, okay?”

  Can’t answer that. Can’t do anything except lower my head, so damn glad that I don’t have some tangled thicket of a beard getting in the way right now. That mess of hair is in the trash where it belongs.

  When our lips brush, my whole body flushes hot. My heart gives an almighty thud, and I tilt my head and kiss her deeper.

  Home.

  Kissing Evie feels like home.

  More than my cave or my mountain or any apartment I’ve ever lived in. More than a military base or the childhood home that Tess and I used to chase each other round. More than anything.

  That frigid despair spears deeper, deeper. Because this can’t last—I can’t keep her. None of this is for me, and that knowledge makes me want to beat my chest and howl up at the damn moon.

  I don’t, though. Instead I walk Evie back, pressing her against the painted wall for a second time—except this time she lets me. This time she welcomes me, her arms looping around my neck and her hips pressing against mine. The stars are bright and the sounds from the bar are muffled, and every time I move, tiny rocks scrape beneath my boots.

  “So perfect,” I mutter, kissing her hard. Kissing her rough. Kissing her with all the pent up hunger and frustration and bone-melting sorrow that Evie can’t be mine, not tonight and not ever. “You’re so fucking perfect, you know that?”

  My words vibrate against her lips. Evie sucks in a breath and nips my bottom lip, then soothes the sting with her tongue.

  “Right back atcha,” she says.

  And I’m losing the thread. Time and space are slipping away, my thoughts cloudy with lust.

  I kiss her again, wedging a thigh between her legs.

  “If you were mine…”

  Can’t finish the thought, not with Evie’s fingers weaving through my hair, tugging on the strands just like she teased me earlier. Was that only a few hours ago? Feels like a hundred years have passed since then.

  “What?” Evie nudges her chin against mine. “If I were yours, what?”

  Bliss sears my exhausted brain at the thought, lighting me up from the inside. These thoughts will hurt me more in the long run, but now that she’s asked, I can’t stop them spilling from my lips.

  “I’d worship you.” The words are quiet, gruff, gritted out in this lonely alley as we cling together. “I’d fucking kiss the ground you walked on, Evie. Everything you wanted, I’d find a way to give it to you. Anything that hurt you, I’d crush it like a bug. And I’d take you to bed each night and remind you that you’re mine and no other’s, until your voice is hoarse from crying out and my back is striped from your fingernails.”

  Evie’s gulp is audible. Her breath stutters in and out of her chest.

  And… these are fantasies. I know that. Fantasies and no more.

  But each word still tastes like truth in my mouth, like I’m not weaving stories in this alley. Like I’m swearing a vow.

  My forehead drops down to rest against hers, and I rock my head back and forth. Evie’s eyelids flutter closed, and she’s clinging to my shirt front again.

  “Does that have to stay hypothetical?” she asks. “Are you sure?” Her laugh sounds miserable. Strained. “Because I’m down if you are, Wild Man.”

  The icy despair is well and truly sunk in my marrow now. So cold. I kiss her gently on the tip of her nose, then both closed eyelids, then her forehead before stepping back.

  Evie clings on to my shirt until the last second. Until the fabric threatens to tear. Then she opens her eyes and glares at me, accusing.

  “That’s a no, isn’t it?”

  Cool air washes over my front where her body just was. I’m used to freezing winds, used to living on the mountain and wandering around without a shirt, bared to the elements, but for the first time in a long time… I shiver.

  “You know why I can’t do this.” It hurts to say those words, to watch anger and disappointment flare in her eyes.

  Evie raises her chin. “I know no such thing.”

  “You deserve better—”

  “That’s my choice.”

  “I can’t live here, Evie. Not even in this small town. And I can’t sentence you to a life in a cave.”

  She folds her arms, pressing them tight to her front. Like she needs a hug, but refuses to show it.

  So brave. Braver than me, clearly. Can’t believe I ever underestimated this girl. Her mouth is down-turned, her shoulders tensed with hurt, and still she meets my gaze, unflinching.

  “So that’s it? You’re just giving up?”

  My head throbs at her words, and all the noise and panic and wasted adrenaline of the day rises up like a tide and threatens to sweep me under. It doesn’t feel like giving up to me—giving up is a choice. I’ve just… reached the end of myself.

  “I’m sorry.” The words scrape my throat on their way out.

  Evie turns on her heel and leaves the alley without another word.

  Nine

  Evie

  Of all the miserable nights in my life, last night definitely made the top five.

  There was that time when I broke my wrist playing volleyball as a kid and no one believed me, all so sure I was exaggerating, so I spent the whole night whimpering with pain before the swelling in the morning finally convinced them of the truth.

  There was the time that my shitty apartment right out of college sprung a leak right over my bed, and I woke to grimy, gray water dripping on my cheek and soaking my pillow.

  There was the time I got up in the night for a glass of water and found a rat the size of a small dog in my kitchen. Same apartment, actually. Nice place. That night I shrieked so loud the neighbors banged on the walls, then I had to chase the rat out with a broom.

  Plus there were all those good old-fashioned nights of insomnia, lying awake staring at the ceiling and recounting all the things I’ve ever done in my life that make me cringe with embarrassment and shame. The usual drill.

 

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