Page 104 of Snowed In with Benefits

“Keep or throw away?” Emmett asks. Always the pragmatist.

I shake my head. I don’t know. I turn it over in my hands again, looking it over. Emmett shrugs and goes back to sorting through things. Hunter does the same, but I can tell something’s bothering him. He opens a box and pauses.

“Should have been me,” he mutters under his breath.

My shoulders tense. I set the watch down and look at my brother, my twin. “No, it shouldn’t have. I did what I needed to do. I’d do it again, in a heartbeat. Wouldn’t think twice.”

Hunter’s jaw goes tight. “You can’t mean that. Three years, Beau.”

I shrug. “Yeah, three years. And it was rough. But I would never—never—make a different choice. And,” I continue, even though Hunter has opened his mouth to say something, “as shitty as prison was, the biggest thing it made me realize is that I’m fucking proud to have you as my brother. Because you shouldn’t have gone to prison for doing the right thing, for protecting someone who couldn’t protect themselves.”

Hunter sighs through his nose and opens his mouth to argue again, but I speak before he can.

“Remember what Josie said? She said it shows what kind of man you are. And you’re a good one, Hunter. A damn good one.”

My brother draws in a breath, his jaw working. He’s quiet for a moment, looking at a random box as he works through everything I just said. He shifts from foot to foot and sighs, then clears his throat.

“Thanks for having my back. Next time, it’s my turn.”

I chuckle at that. “Fat chance. I’m your older brother.”

“By one minute!”

“It was a long minute. I learned a lot. First thing I learned was that it’s my job to look out for you.”

Hunter shoves me. “You’re the one who needs looking out for.”

I shove him back. “You wouldn’t have lasted three minutes, let alone three years.”

He laughs, and the mood lightens as Emmett gives me a small smile from across the attic. The next few hours are full of banter and fun as we sort through the attic. It’s a lot of work, and we’re not half done, but it’s getting late. Emmett is the one who suggests we grab a quick dinner if we’re going to keep doing this. Hunter agrees. We head downstairs.

I left my phone charging on the kitchen counter. It died on me this morning because I forgot to plug it in last night. It’s not the only thing I’ve forgotten recently, but I’m not going to think about that right now. I turn it on and it’s at a hundred percent. Leaning against the counter, I watch the face of the phone, waiting for it to tell me what’s happened on social media in the last few hours.

The first thing to pop up, though, is a voicemail notification. It’s from Josie. My heart lurches.

“Guys,” I say.

“We’re not cleaning out the barn tonight,” Hunter says blandly.

“No, listen. It’s a voicemail from Josie.”

That gets their attention. They crowd around and I put it on speakerphone.

“Beau? It’s me. It’s Josie.” She sounds drunk. She sounds like she’s crying. My heart squeezes in my chest.

“I miss you. I miss all of you. I miss the cabin and the stupid tree and the foxes and the creek and the barn. I miss waking up and having coffee with you guys, I miss cooking for you, I—” She sobs, and I can feel my heart shatter in my chest.

“I miss the way I felt when I was with you. You reminded me of who I am. Who I, I want to be. I want… I want⁠—”

The voicemail ends there. Cut off mid-sentence, mid-want, mid-everything. The silence that follows is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard in this cabin.

Hunter hasn’t moved. That’s what scares me. Hunter is always moving, always fidgeting, always filling the air with something. Right now he’s standing perfectly still with his hands at his sides, staring at my phone like it just told him something he already knew but wasn’t ready to hear out loud.

Emmett’s jaw is working. His hands are curled around the edge of the counter, knuckles white, gripping it the way he grips things when he’s trying not to break them. He’s not looking at the phone. He’s looking at the floor, but he’s not seeing it. He’s somewhere else. Somewhere between here and wherever she is.

I replay the voicemail. Not on the phone. In my head. Her voice, drunk and raw and cracking open in a way I’ve never heard from her before. The way she said my name first, like I was the one she reached for in the dark. The way she listed everything she missed, not us, not our bodies, not what we did to her in bed, but the cabin and the tree and the foxes and the creek. The coffee. The cooking. The ordinary things. The things that made her feel like she belonged somewhere.

And then that last part. The part that got cut off. I want. I want⁠—