Page 22 of Wrecked for Love
Where to next?
No idea.
I let the night swallow me. Wherever I ended up, I’d deal with it.
Not much had happened since I left Buffaloberry Hill, but the little that did happen made me think twice about moving on. I’d been mugged one night. Another time, a drunk followed me back to my motel.
The endless road grated on my nerves. I wished I was in bed, sleeping in peace. I’d forgotten what that even felt like.
My hand drifted to my chest, still adjusting to the absence of myBatgirl Forevernecklace. I had no idea where I’d lost it, but when I realized it was gone, I cried for days. Cody had given it to me, and tonight, the loss hit harder than usual.
“Fuuuuck!” The scream ripped from my throat, but my one remaining lung was too spent to sustain it. Even with both, this release wouldn’t have been any easier.
I was so damn tired of fighting alone. Maybe I’d gone soft because, for a moment back at The Lazy Moose, I’d tasted what safety felt like. I missed that feeling—more than I cared to admit.
Suddenly, a deer darted into the middle of the road. I slammed on the brakes just in time.
That was close!
The doe had a fawn with her. I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if I’d hit either of them. Or worse, both.
“Sorry, Mama,” I murmured, watching them cross, my hands trembling on the wheel.
My head dropped forward as I tried to catch my breath, telling myself I’d be okay.
I drove on. If I kept going, I’d be in Colorado soon. I’d never turned back before, but maybe this time I should.
A familiar pillow. A place where I didn’t have to sleep with one eye open. God, I’d give anything for that right now!
The complications could wait.
9
CLAIRE
Coming full circle had always been an abstract idea to me. Something other people talked about, though it never quite made sense in my world of constant movement. Until now.
Hello, Buffaloberry Hill!
If I could hug the town, I would. But for now, I was focused on finding a place to live. Lucky for me, the cottage I’d fallen in love with was still up for rent.
“So, where are you from?” Logan Pierce, the owner of The Willow, asked as he showed me around the cottage. He was in his early thirties, with the easy confidence of a man who spent his life outdoors. Apparently, he owned a ranch not far from The Lazy Moose.
“Idaho,” I lied effortlessly.
Logan gave an awkward smile, his eyes briefly flicking toward the Chicago license plate on my car.
I didn’t give him a chance to speculate. “Originally from Chicago, but it feels like I’ve hardly lived there. I’ve been on the road so much that I can barely remember where city hall is. I’ve been in Idaho for the past few months, hence the claim.”
Logan took it in stride as we stepped onto the porch. “Well, I bet no place in Chicago or Idaho has the kind of charm this does.” He unlocked the front door and pushed it open wide.
“Definitely not,” I replied, grateful he didn’t question my story.
“With a little TLC,” he said, gesturing to the cozy living room, “this cottage could be a sanctuary like no other.”
Logan was terrible at salesmanship. He didn’t pretend to be a real estate agent; it wasn’t his thing. The cottage had belonged to his grandmother, and he hadn’t had the heart to sell it. His honesty was almost too transparent for someone in his position. In New York, people like him would get eaten alive. Real estate agents there? They were polished sharks in tailored suits, flashing perfect smiles and spinning webs of half-truths faster than you could blink. Every inch of square footage was a battle they intended to win.
Logan, though? He was far too genuine for that.
