Page 13 of Fragile Heart

“Brielle?” He trips over my name, the vowels merging and the “r” not quite sounding right.

“You can call me Bri,” I offer.

“Bri.” He still mangles the “r” just a bit, but I don’t say anything. As I take the group of flowers, he asks, “What’s your favorite color?”

“Purple.”

He frowns. “Oh. Sorry these aren’t purple.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. Want to help me put them in a vase?”

He nods, smiling, though his eyes are still serious. He follows me into the small guest house. Emily stands and closes the door behind him. Her eyes track over me, assessing me in one quick, unnerving sweep. I ignore it and focus on filling a small decorative vase from the living room with water. Camden puts each flower into it, his tongue sticking out in concentration. I can’t help but smile.

When they’re all arranged, he nods and asks, “Do you like hiking?”

“I haven’t hiked in a long time,” I tell him. “Let me get my shoes on, and we’ll go find out.”

Chapter Seven

BRIELLE

“Did Emily bother you about Saturday?” Melissa asks.

I chance a glance at her, but she’s swiping through her phone with a blank face.

“No,” I say.

Hiking with Emily had been more enjoyable than I’d expected. She’d been quiet and reflective, a perfect balance to Camden’s happy-go-lucky adventurous spirit. I’d expected her to drill me about the awkward as hell runin with her brother, but she didn’t bring up anything about him or the ranch. Nothing beyond doubling down that I’m allowed to ride Phoebe whenever I’d like.

Melissa nods. “Good, then she actually listened to me for once.”

I raise an eyebrow. Melissa shrugs and readjusts her glasses.

“You know how Alphas are. Even when they’re your friends. Sometimes the need to protect overrides the friendship, you know? I told her it was just you reacting to an Alpha after comingoff the suppressors. But I wasn’t sure she would just leave it alone.”

She points to the stop sign a few hundred feet ahead of us.

“Turn left here,” she instructs. “And then it’s the second one on your right.”

We’re spending Friday night going to The Outpost, a bar unofficially known as the locals’ hangout space. It’s an unassuming building a few blocks off of Main with a single story, flat-roofed shape and brick facade. Its large double doors are painted a dark brown, probably to look like wood. The windows are large but little light makes it through them, probably from a film they’ve put over the glass for privacy. It’s clear the building is older, but there’s no neon signs or overly western touches that I’d expected.

A majority of Creek Falls makes money from the tourists traveling north to Grand Teton and Yellowstone. And touristslovecliche. So much so that sometimes even the more local spots end up being infected with it. The only concession is the name itself. Calling a bar “The Outpost” is practically right out of the Old West.

The parking lot is nearly full, so I slide into one of the only open spots in the farthest corner. Melissa adjusts her dress as we head toward the building. As she gets her small clutch situated on her wrist, I take a moment to mess with my own outfit, making sure my shirt is tucked into the black skirt and laying flat.

Inside, it’s more of the unassuming design. Simple dark hardwood floors and sporadic landscape photographs on the deep navy walls. The bar runs the entire length of the wall to our left, barstools a simple black with low backs. Smaller tables line the far wall and the one to our right, carving out a large space in the middle for dancing. The only nods to cliche evident inside are all of the people wearing jeans and cowboy hats. Some arebedazzled, some shimmer under the low lighting. I’m the only one without one.

I glance down at my outfit—a metallic black skirt that flares away from my hips and falls mid-thigh and a mostly see-through dark purple top that shows off the lacy black balconette bralette I’m wearing underneath it. It’s something that would have been considered appropriate for a night out at most of the more informal bars in Denver.

I glance at everyone around me and seriously consider just turning around and heading back to the guest house to hide.

“You’re fine, Bri.” Melissa loops her arm through mine and guides us to the bar, sliding into a seat.

“Hey, Mel.” The woman behind the bar greets Melissa, her voice warm and a large smile lighting her face. “What has you out on a Friday?”

Melissa smiles and gestures toward me. I slip into the chair beside her, crossing my ankles and tucking my small, crossbody purse into my lap.

“Devynn, this is Brielle,” Melissa says over the din of the music and crowd.

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