Page 2 of Wild Promise

“Your future only exists because of me and my company. You just haven’t figured that out yet.”

Then he hung up.

Classic Bowen Alexander. Always needing the last word.

I stood in the resort parking lot, my breath fogging in the cold air, my hands shaking with a rage I couldn’t let go. Green Mountain loomed dark against the sky, and somewhere across town, people were already gathering at my place, waiting for the guy who always knew how to have a good time.

Fuck him.

I drove home with my gut twisted tight and my mood swinging between not giving a shit and caring way too fucking much.

The house was already packed, and the noise hit me like a wall when I walked in. Laughter, music, the clink of bottles.

I was the host. The entertainment. I was supposed to be the life of this thing.

So I shoved my father’s voice into the back of my skull and got to work pretending I was fine.

I grabbed a beer, then another, then whiskey to chase them. Eventually, I ended up in the kitchen with Colin and a couple of the guys from search and rescue, serving drinks while steadily drowning myself in my own.

It made no difference. The uneasiness still clawed at me.

Sometime after midnight, I stepped onto the back porch for air. The cold hit like a slap, but I welcomed it. Anything was better than the dull ache lodged in my chest.

Soft, broken sobs stopped me.

I turned, and there she was. Curled up the far corner of the porch, arms wrapped around herself, dark hair hiding her face.

Melina Marshall.

The woman from guest services, with the serious eyes and killer curves. The one who’d never once given me the time of day.

What the hell was she even doing here? She never came to my parties.

I should’ve gone back inside. Given her the privacy she clearly wanted.

But the way she was shaking, trying so hard to keep herself together, cracked something open in me. And fuck, I couldn’t stand seeing her hurt.

I crossed the porch slowly, careful not to spook her. I didn’t ask what was wrong. Didn’t force conversation. I just stood beside her, steady and quiet, giving her somewhere to land if she needed it.

Eventually her sobs faded into uneven sniffles. She scrubbed at her face with the sleeve of her sweater but still didn’t look at me. Didn’t acknowledge I was there.

Silence stretched between us. And something about it—the peace of just existing beside someone who wasn’t expecting a damn thing from me—had the tension easing out of my body.

Until she whispered, “My mom died.”

Fuck.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I slipped an arm around her shoulders, telling myself it was for her comfort even though, deep down, I needed the contact just as much.

She told me about her mother. About losing her. About becoming the person everyone leaned on while her own world collapsed around her.

She talked. I listened. And somewhere in that cold corner of my back porch, while the party carried on inside, something shifted between us.

When she leaned into me, I held her. When she shivered, I pulled her closer. And when she finally tipped her face up to mine with those devastating, tear-filled eyes…

I was done for.

Then she kissed me.