Page 56 of When Sky Breaks

“But…”

I turn and lean against the counter. “But I don’t know if he’s right for me. I thought finding someone carefree and—” I stumble over my words, almost admitting I’d hoped Johnny being the opposite of August would make my life easier, but…

“He doesn’t light you up like he should.”

I shake my head. “Not like I hoped.”

“This early in, you both shouldn’t be able to go days without speaking or wanting to be around each other. That’s not a good sign, honey.”

Hanging my head, I dig deep to find that Foster’s right. More often than not, it’s August on my mind and not Johnny. Johnny was supposed to turn my life upside down and show me what I’ve been missing. Lately, it’s a chore to talk to him. For example, it’s been days with only a few text exchanges. I can’t possibly believe he’s okay with this level of non-commitment. But clearly, I am, as I haven’t made more of an attempt myself.

What about August?

I shut my eyes to erase his face. August may be more of a man now, but it doesn’t change the past—what he did.

Conflicted, I tidy up the kitchen when Foster leaves to rest. The pressure is overwhelming. I have no clue what I’m doing.

Why are matters of the heart so hard to trudge through?

* * *

With the frame to the Villain’s Playground complete, the plywood walls are ready for a paint job.

Trek got home yesterday but took another day off from volunteering to go do something, so I’m on my own today. I’ll admit I miss him and his sarcasm. All his quirks make me smile, and I’m glad we’re moving beyond all the hurt.

So why is it so hard to do the same for August? Trek was just as guilty as August for the fire, but forgiving him comes easier.

August is a good person at his core. And good people sometimes do bad things for the people they love, but accepting this is like accepting Chase’s death as mere collateral damage.

My chest constricts. Chase. He never got to live. I loved being his big sister. His sweet baby curls and sticky fingers left an everlasting imprint in my mind. Would he want me closing myself off from something real? Or worse, settling for someone who may challenge me to try new things but still doesn’t understand me on a cellular level?

Would Chase want me barely living because he isn’t?

Those thoughts almost consume me as I gather the paint supplies and head to the section of the wall I’m charged with getting done today. Thankfully, it’s a beautiful Indiana afternoon, and it helps drive away all my opposing emotions. The sun hangs high and the fluffy clouds dot the sky, masking the fact in a few short months, it’s going to be winter. I don’t mind the cooler temps and relish the breeze as it kicks up and sends my hair swirling before I wrangle it into a high pony.

Pushing up the sleeves of my thermal shirt, I ready my roller and dip it into the thick paint. Broad strokes up and down are all it takes to cover these walls. I get into a rhythm and hardly notice when someone else joins me until we bump elbows.

“Oh gosh, I’m sor—oh. Hi.”

My pulse takes off once I face him fully. The paint roller trembles slightly in my hand, and I set it down, wiping my palms on my jeans.

As usual, it annoys me how freaking handsome August is. The casual way he’s dressed doesn’t take away how alluring the man really is. Taller and broader. Definitely would make any woman weak in the knees.

His tattoos—including the damned apple tattoo we got together—peek from under his rolled-up sleeves, and it’s hard to look away from his forearms as he dips the brush into the bucket of black paint near his feet. It’s entirely rude to look this good in basic clothes. Even his jeans hug his toned legs in a way that’s utterly sinful. And I refuse to look at his backside when he bends to paint at the base of the wall.

“Sky,” he says, my name falling off his tongue in a deep voice as he stands to his full height. Was it always that gravelly?

“What are you doing here?” I swipe at my warm cheeks with the back of my hand and resume painting with a more vigorous stroke than before.

“Painting.”

I roll my eyes and fight like hell to keep the smirk off my lips. “Don’t you work?”

“Perks of being the owner. I pay my employees to do most of it for me so I can focus on other things.”

“Like pestering your ex-girlfriend?”

That grin of his is dangerous. “Exactly. So, you’re admitting I get a rise out of you?”

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