Page 12 of From the Wreckage
She nods, but her hazel eyes stay locked on me like she’s trying to memorize my face in case she never sees me again.
Finally, her voice breaks the silence. “What’s your name?”
“Everett,” I answer, the syllables sounding rough in my own ears. “What’s yours?”
She hesitates, as if giving it to me is dangerous. Finally, she whispers, “Brielle.”
The name detonates inside me.Brielle.
I grip the wheel tighter, remembering yesterday when I stopped at The Pine & Page. I’d lingered too long in the aisles, pretending to browse, hoping to bump into her. She hadn’t been there. But when I checked out, Margaret, the owner, asked Leah if Brielle had picked up her books. Leah said she was in fifteen minutes ago. I’d missed her by a breath.
And now she’s here. In my truck. Saying my name like it’s a lifeline.
The miles blur until we reach the lake. I plan to take her straight to my cabin, but as I slow for the turn, she points across the water.
“My dad’s place is down Harbor Point Road.”
I stop at the sign, staring. Then I nod toward the asphalt stretch on the left. “I’m on Cedar Bend.”
Her head whips toward me, her eyes wide. “You live here?”
“Yeah. Moved in two weeks ago.”
A beat of silence before she murmurs, “I live in the cabin on the other side of the lake.”
My pulse slams in my throat.She’s my neighbor. She’s been right there all along.
“You’re my neighbor,” I echo, the sound holding a tinge of disbelief.
She swallows, her lips trembling into the ghost of a smile. “A-apparently.”
I think back to that first night on my back porch with a beer in hand, staring out at the dark water. The sound of laughter had carried through the trees. Warm. Soft. Feminine. I hadn’t been able to shake it. And now I know—it was her.
I turn onto Cedar Bend Road and pull into my driveway. The truck crunches to a stop on the gravel, and before she can reach for the handle, I’m already out, circling my truck and opening her door.
“You’re still bleeding,” I mutter, my voice tight. “Let’s get you inside.”
Whether she realizes it yet or not, her being hurt is something I can’t fucking handle.
The second her flip flops hit the gravel, I’m steering her toward the porch. My hand hovers against her lower back—not pushing, just guiding. Touching her burns like a brand against me.
Inside, the morning sun slants across the floorboards, brightening the cabin. I flick on the light, toss my keys onto the counter, and pull out a chair at the small kitchen table.
“I turned the light on so I can see better,” I say as I gesture to the chair. She winces as she lowers herself into the chair.
Blood still seeps through the napkins, and the sight of it makes me curse under my breath. I grab the first-aid kit from the cabinet above the fridge and kneel in front of her.
“Hold still.” My fingers brush her wrist as I peel the napkins away. Her pulse leaps against my touch, and mine answers in tune with hers.
The gash isn’t deep, but it’s messy. I clean it carefully, every swipe of the antiseptic pad making her flinch. “Sorry,” I mutter, even as my jaw locks. “You should’ve let me take you to the hospital.”
“I’m fine,” she insists softly, though her voice trembles. “It’s just a cut.”
“Just a cut,” I echo, shaking my head. “Could’ve been worse. You could’ve—” I stop, the worddiedsticking like glass in my throat. I grab a bandage and press it over the wound, forcing myself to breathe.
When I finally meet her eyes, her hazel gaze is locked on me, wide and searching.
“You don’t even know me,” she whispers.
