Page 25 of The Lonely Road

“I…I can do Monday evening,” I blurt out.

His lips twitch slightly as he holds out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

I tilt my head and consider his request for a moment and then unlock my device and give it to him.

His fingers move easily on the screen. He has nice hands. Strong hands. They’d be⁠—

“Here.” He hands my phone back. “I’m in your contacts, and I sent myself a text, so I have your number.”

“Okay.” There’s something about this man that makes me feel like an ingénue instead of a grown woman. I never felt this way with Griffin or any of my other boyfriends.

With them, I was always the one making decisions, the one in charge. But with Mason, I can just say okay, and somehow, I know it will be.

“Send me your address,” he orders as he straightens.

Okay, Mr. Cocky, slow the F down.

He grins and adds, “Please.”

I can’t help it. I smile back at him.

“I’ll pick you up around six on Monday. Does that work?”

“Yes.”

“See you soon, Counselor.”

He walks away, and I hurriedly get into my Wrangler and make a valiant and successful effort not to watch him get into his truck.

I drive home.

I bought a small cottage on the east bench, about a mile and a half out of town—a 1940s rancher that the previous owner fully renovated, blending modern functionality with its original ranch-house character.

It sits on two acres of scrub and sage with a creek running along the back of the property that freezes solid in the winter and runs fast and cold by spring.

The views face west.

Every evening, without trying, I get the mountains blushing pink at the edges and the canyon below filling with the soft dark of dusk.

It’s the first home that feels like it’s mine.

I owned my apartment in Aspen, but that felt performative. And I still have my grandmother’s house in Ignacio—but that’s hers. I’m just the guardian.

It’s on tribal land, so technically it’s held in trust, but it’s mine through her, and I keep it as my primary address to maintain that line. I go back often enough that it still feels like home—and when I’m not there, it doesn’t sit empty.

A younger cousin stays there some of the time while she’s working on her PhD. It gives her a foothold, and it gives me some peace of mind knowing there’s family in the house—someone to keep the proverbial kettle on and a literal light in the window.

This one is mine in a different way—chosen, not inherited.

I brought everything I had in my Aspen apartment, and somehow the designer furniture, the ranch-style cottage, the mountains—they all fit together, like they’re part of the same whole—an amalgam of me.

I pull into the gravel drive and sit in the Wrangler for a moment.

I just said yes to dinner with a man who makes my body react in ways I don’t entirely trust.

Damn it!

I grab the grocery bags and head inside.