Page 32 of Broken on the Mountain
The sound of me kicking off my new mountain boots echoes through twelve hundred square feet of architecturally designed perfection. Marble floors gleaming under recessed lighting. Abstract art that probably has meaning I'm supposed to understand. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Chicago's skyline like it's a prize I won but never wanted.
I move across the room to the open-plan kitchen, and, as always, a bottle of sparkling water waits in the fridge. It's chilled to exactly forty-two degrees because that's what the concierge knows I prefer.
I take a sip, leaning back against the counter, looking down the narrow hallway to see my plush robe hanging on its designated hook, right where I left it.
Everything here is in its place. Everything is perfect.
…everything is empty.
Don't think about him. Don't think about him. Don't think about him.
The command lasts approximately three seconds before I'm cataloguing every place Chase Morrison still lives on my body.
His flannel draped over my carry-on bag. The new and unused hiking boots I've plonked by the door, looking completely useless in the endless cityscape twinkling in the night sky beneath my towering complex. The compass bookmark tucked inside the wildflower guide I never thought I'd love when I left this penthouse four days ago.
Four days.
That's all it took for Stone River to crack something open inside me I didn't know was sealed shut.
I pull the flannel to my face and breathe in deep.
Pine trees, Chase's soap and pure, crisp mountain air. The scent punches through my composure and suddenly I'm back at Silver Falls, wrapped in this exact shirt while he poured coffee and looked at me likeIwas the sunrise instead of just another person watching it.
My phone buzzes.
Chase:Made it home safe?
Me:Define safe?
Chase:Not injured. Not lost. Not climbing any fire escapes.
Me:Then yes. Tragically safe.
Chase:Good. Miss you already.
Three words that shouldn't hit this hard.
I set the phone down before I can type something stupid likeI miss you tooorcome to ChicagoorI think I'm in love with you and it's been four days and I'm terrified but already desperate to come back.
Instead, I unzip my suitcase and start to unpack just to distract myself.
Feeling heavy with tired legs, I pull out my designer dresses, the ones I barely wrinkled. I empty my bag of toiletries and make-up that I barely used. And then, just as I'm nearly done, tucked into the side pocket of the suitcase, carefully folded in a neat square is…
The napkin.
The one we signed at Bear Paw Café with our ridiculous weekend-only agreement. There's a smear of purple berry sauce from the pancakes, and my handwriting declaringWeekends Only. No Strings. No Feelings.
I smooth the napkin on my kitchen counter and trace his signature. Then I see the little addition above my name, where he replaced the dots on my i's with love hearts.
My chest feels like it's about to collapse.
I turn back to the suitcase, but right there, tucked beneath where the napkin was, almost hidden… is an empty gummy bear wrapper.
"Oh God," I whisper to myself, smiling.
I press the corner to my lips and breathe in the sugar-sweet scent. This is a love note from a man who carries gummy bears around as first aid kits. And someone knows my shoe size without asking. And made restraint feel like the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me.
"I'm not good at casual."
