“It was that or become an icicle.”
He laughs once. “You can’t be using the fireplaces when you have no idea the last time they were cleaned. Let me go take care of something first, and I’ll be there in ten, okay?”
I nod. “Thank you, Everett. I appreciate it.”
“Of course.”
I get back in the warm car and head to my house. The fire has dwindled to almost nothing, so I walk to the side porch, grab a couple more logs, and get it going again. The last thing I need are frozen pipes.
A few minutes later, I hear the familiar sound of tires on gravel. Everett gets out of the car and heads toward me. “Where’s the propane tank?”
“Behind the shed on the left.”
He nods and I follow him out. He’s wearing a pair of tight jeans, boots, and what looks like a brown bomber jacket. He has that effortless, I’m-so-hot-I-can’t-help-myself kind of vibe. It’s just natural and the way his ass fills out those jeans—yeah, still hot.
Why couldn’t he be ugly?
Why couldn’t I roll back into town and find that he wasn’t here or he wasn’t still completely delicious?
It would’ve made this return just a little easier. Then I wouldn’t have to think about the stupid mistakes I made when I walked away from him.
That’s just not the way my cookie crumbles, though. I’m the girl who gets to see every error of my ways, sometimes even on television thanks to my soon-to-be ex-husband.
“Back here?” Everett asks, snapping me out of my maudlin thoughts.
“Yeah, right there.”
He goes around the left, finds the buried propane tank, and lifts the lid. “The line isn’t open.”
“Are you sure? I turned it.” I come around to look.
The wind whips my hair into my face, obstructing my view. I grab handfuls and peer at the tank.
“To open the line, it should be parallel like this.” Everett turns it. “Do you have one against the house?”
“Should I know this?” I ask.
He snorts. “Probably. We’re off the grid here, for the most part, so knowing your propane and septic would be a good thing.”
He’s probably right. “I had someone come here and keep up the property, but I don’t really know the details.”
“I know, or at least I figured when the house didn’t crumble after a decade.”
Our eyes meet, and for a second the guilt hits me. “I’m sorry, Everett.”
“For what?”
For leaving you. For never coming back. For not giving you the chance to decide. For all of it.
“Everything,” I say, hoping he hears it all in that single word.
Everett gives me a lopsided grin. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Vi. We were kids. Trust me, it worked out fine.”
That stings. “I really hope for you it did.”
“What about for you? You’re married, right? Any kids?”
The way he says it, the almost tightness in his voice, makes me wonder whether he knows about me and Dylan. “No kids, and Iwasmarried, but I’m in the middle of a divorce.”
