Page 42 of Click of Fate

Still, I stare at it for a solid thirty seconds.

What am I doing?

I need to walk out that door. No note. No follow-up. That’s the deal. That’s always been my deal. But my fingers move before I tell them to.

I tear off a page, click the pen, and write:

Thanks for the climb—figuratively speaking...

- Stella

Reading over the note once, I notice my handwriting’s messier than usual. I want to fix it, but I don’t. Instead, I jot down my phone number.

I tuck the corner of the note under the coffee maker where he won’t miss it, then take one last look toward his room.

Still no movement from the bedroom.

Good.

Because if he walked out now—messy hair, sleepy smile, using the nickname he’s coined for me—I’m not sure I’d make it to the door.

And I need to leave first. Ialwaysleave first.

But I can’t decipher the origin of the flutter in my stomach. It feels like I’m leaving something behind this time.

The ten-minute walk back to The Trading Post to grab my car is quiet, the early morning light stretching long across the sidewalks. This part of the city feels calm. It might even be peaceful—if I weren’t so busy thinking about Luke.

By the time I slide into the driver’s seat, my thoughts are too loud. I crank the music, hoping the volume will drown them out. “Cool Girl” by Tove Lo blasts through the speakers. It’s all bass and sarcasm—exactly the distraction I need.

Until it isn’t.

That familiar, guilt-tinged tug of reality starts to settle in, low and persistent.

Pulling into the driveway, I spot a familiar car parked on the street and an even more familiar redhead standing on my front porch.

“Hey, lady,” Hazel calls, all chipper and glowing. Of course she is. Her hair’s perfect, her skin unfairly radiant. She’s rocking boyfriend jeans and a powder-blue shirt like she didn’t just wake up at the ass crack of dawn.

I squint at her. “How long have you been awake?”

She shrugs. “Four a.m., boo.”

I shiver. “That’s disgusting.”

She follows me inside, and that’s when I notice the Tupperware in her hands. I glance at it, and she catches me looking.

“I made new scones. Was just gonna leave them for you and Harper.”

“You know they’re out of town, right?” I ask as I unlock the door.

“I do. I knocked to see if you were up. Then I was gonna tuck them in your flower pot and text you.” She nods toward the giant ceramic planter on the porch.

My stomach loudly growls right on cue.

Hazel smirks. “Breakfast is on me, apparently.”

I chuckle and head down the hall to brush my teeth while she makes herself at home in the kitchen.

When I return, she’s popped a K-cup into the machine and preheated the oven like she lives here.

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