Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series

by Pogue, Lindsey

  “Don’t say it like that, Colton. You’re twisting my words.”

  I let out a callous laugh. “Am I? Well, I thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives together, and I just learned that I’m a regret to the only person in the world I give two shits about.”

  I don’t bother looking at her face. I’m too afraid to see the emotion in her eyes—or, more pointedly, the lack of it.

  “I’m such an idiot,” I hear myself say, and before I realize what’s happening she’s walking past me.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “This wasn’t what I wanted.”

  I glare at her, the weight of my heart almost too much to bear.

  Kylie takes a step back and opens the door. “I’ll plan on staying at my parents’ house until we, well, figure things out.” Then she shuts the door and a waft of cotton candy hits me. It used to bring me comfort, but now it burns the unwanted scent of failure and mediocrity into my memory.

  I pound my fist into the wall and let the sting of pain spread through my hand and up my arm. I’m running out of reasons to give a shit about anything anymore.

  Twenty-Six

  Mac

  After stirring in and out of sleep, I finally sit up and grab my cell phone. The display light is near blinding, so I close one eye and squint with the other, trying to focus on the clock. It’s nearly dawn and the cabin is still quiet, but I can’t stay asleep. I’m cold and thirsty as hell. Deciding water and another blanket are my only hope for a few more stolen moments of oblivion, I peel back the covers, the cool air assaulting me despite my thermal attire.

  In the darkness, I riffle through my overnight bag, looking for a sweatshirt, and tug it on before I head toward the door. Careful not to wake Colton or anyone else, I turn the knob and ease the door open. Warm air hits me from the living room and grateful chills spring up over my body. Only after hours of misery do I finally realize I should’ve slept with the door open. The fire isn’t raging, but it’s built and flickering and its warmth fills the cabin.

  With a quick glance at the back of the couch, I briefly wonder what Colton looks like when he sleeps and tiptoe toward the kitchen on sock-covered feet. I nearly screech in terror when I see a dark figure standing at the counter. My hand flies over my mouth and I double over, holding in a profanity or two.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, hushed, but not in a whisper. Then he steps into the light. I glance from him to the couch, wondering what he’s doing awake so flipping early. He holds up a mug. “Coffee?”

  I brace my hands on the counter and hold up my finger while I catch my breath and steady my nerves. “Water. Please,” I say on an exhale.

  Colton sets an empty mug next to the coffeepot and fills a cup of water for me. “Can’t sleep?” His voice holds a hint of a smile and I look at him, trying to see his face through the shadows.

  I shake my head. “It’s too cold.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t leave your door open.” He steps past me, walking toward the living room. I glare at the back of him and shake my head. I’m definitely not going back to sleep now, my heart’s racing so fast. After a decent chug of water, I pour a cup of coffee into the mug he set aside for me, add some cream and sugar, and carefully take a sip. “Perfect,” I whisper. The warmth doesn’t just go down my throat but fills my whole body with each tiny sip.

  Colton stands at the wall of windows. I watch him over the rim of my cup, at the way he stands there, gazing out into the darkness. I guess it’s not darkness though, not anymore. The snow has let up and there’s an auroral light glowing up from beyond the mountain range.

  My feet are moving before I realize I’m walking over to him. Perhaps it’s the snowball fights and the laughing, or the hint of amusement I heard in his voice a moment ago, but there’s no tension between us now, even though I heard most of what he and Sam were talking about. It seems a distant memory in my sleepy brain. I take comfort in that, at least for now.

  I step up beside him and gaze out the window. Snow floats down, without a rush or care in the world, allowing us to see the landscape encased in white.

  “Do you think we’ll be snowed in?” I ask and take another sip of my coffee.

  Colton’s head moves side to side, slowly, thoughtfully. I find myself sort of desperate to know what he’s thinking. “I doubt it.” He nods out the window. “When I was out there earlier the snow was pretty deep, but nothing all of us with a shovel can’t handle.” I forget, in our own little white oasis, that there are other cabins scattered throughout this part of the mountain, a ski destination with roads that needed to be plowed and power lines that needed to be checked on a regular basis.

  The way he stares out the window is almost serenity in itself. “You like the snow then?” I ask. It’s a question I hope will gain me more insight into Colton Hughes—father, mechanic, and intriguing mystery man, now more than ever.

  He walks over to the fire and pokes and prods at the cinders. “I used to.”

  More mysteries. I walk over to the couch and curl up in the corner. It creaks and groans as I pull my feet in beneath me. “Used to?”

  His gaze flicks from the fire to me, then back again. “I used to go to Aspen every year with my parents, to a resort there that my mom loved. It was the only thing I remember looking forward to when I was a kid.” He tosses a log onto the fire.

  “Are you close with your mom?” I ask, suddenly so curious I can’t help myself. He talks about her like she’s not around anymore, and I wonder if our stories might be more similar than I thought.

  He barely spares me a glance and shakes his head. “Not as close as she’d like. But then again she’s always been more focused on looking the part of the perfect housewife—the typical socialite without a hair out of place and her clothes always perfect. She always seems so put together, no matter what’s going on, I’ll give her that.” He pauses. “You remind me of her, actually.”

  The coolness of his tone strips away any friendliness between us. I take a few quick, thin breaths as my ego—and maybe even my heart—takes an unexpected blow. I’ve known Colton looks at me with certain judgments, but I never thought it was because he thought me a shallow, highborn imitation—that he’d be so off the mark as to who I am and he’d think so little of me. I’m not sure if I’m more hurt or furious.

  Colton glances at me and winces almost immediately. “Shit.”

  Forcing myself to walk away from him before I cause a scene and lose it completely, I stand and turn.

  “Mac, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “No?” I fume, peering at him over my shoulder as he steps closer.

  “No,” he says, our noses almost touching.

  I want to push him away from me, but he’s too close; he smells too real and his eyes are too crystal, too clear . . . I want to be this close to him. I want him more than I’ve wanted any man before. The way he looks at me, with a mixture of sympathy and regret, makes me feel weak and I yearn to taste his lips again. The way my body responds to him of all people . . . I can’t play this game with him anymore.

  I want to look away from him; I try. “I can’t do this,” I murmur. I can feel my control slipping away from me, and I hate how lost I feel. I shut my eyes to hold back a frustrated tear and hold my head higher. “I—”

  His warm, burning palm cups my cheek and my eyes flit open. He’s a blur of flickering shadows and fiery-blue orbs that could stare into my soul, shredding me to ribbons in seconds if I don’t look away. But all I want to do is dissolve into his touch. I don’t understand why of all men my mind and body let me get so dangerously close to him. I blink, until finally a silent tear breaks away from the brim of my lashes and rolls down my cheek.

  I see his intent gaze more clearly, the way it flicks to my lips and then to my eyes again. There’s a flash of what almost feels like a hesitant desire, but then his hand falls away. “I’m sorry,” he breathes as he looks down and shakes his head. A wisp of hair falls i
nto his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I stare at the scar on his temple that moves and shimmers as he clenches his jaw. I want to know about that scar. I want to know why there is so much distance in his eyes and why he hesitates.

  “I don’t understand,” I say in a desperate whisper. “If I’m so flippant and superficial, then why do you keep—”

  “I don’t think that.” Colton scowls at me the way he always does—the way I’m used to now. “You’re not listening to me.”

  “I’m trying.”

  He exhales and runs his fingers through his hair. Equally frustrated, I turn to head into the den. I’m not going to whisper-argue with him about this. Not here and now. Stopping at the picture window above the foldout couch, I wipe the wet remnants from my cheek with my sleeve and take a deep breath—in and out—until my heart pounds less rapidly and the emotions calm enough to bury themselves a little further beneath the surface.

  I stare out at the surrounding mountains, at the white-covered trees jetting up from the jagged peaks that fade into the dark clouds in the distance, and I shiver . . .

  The floor creaks beneath Colton’s slow footsteps as he steps down into the den. I’m already shaking my head. “Please, go away.” It’s not a nicety or plea as much as a feeble demand.

  When I don’t hear retreating footsteps, I peer over my shoulder.

  “You want to know how I feel?” He offers me the only thread of truth I’ve ever really wanted from him. “Why this can’t happen?”

  I turn to face him and wrap my arms tightly around me in answer, waiting.

  “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that kiss—before that, if I’m honest with myself. But it doesn’t matter because it was a mistake.”

  This time, I flinch. “Because of Kylie?” His ex. The mother of his child.

  I watch as Colton’s partially shadowed face alters and changes in the inky morning, like he’s confused.

  “When you walked away from me that day to go to her—”

  “You’re the one who walked away.” His voice is rough again, impatient.

  I gape at him. “As opposed to causing another scene, like you did at the party? I saw Kylie’s name on your phone, twice. What would you have done? Had you told me who she was—” I’m shaking my head because none of it matters anymore. “What is this between us, Colton? And if it’s not about Kylie, then what is it about?” Lust? A trick our minds are playing on us because we can’t seem to help our attraction to one another?

  He runs his fingers through his unkempt hair and a few more strands fall into his face. “Everything has to be about Casey,” he says quietly and steps past me, to the window. “It doesn’t matter how I feel about you.”

  There’s something he’s struggling to say, I can hear it in his voice—an argument he’s had with himself many times before. The way he’s shaking his head . . .

  “I was in a racing accident—I’d thought we were getting married and Kylie ended things between us. I was younger and stupid.” His voice is distant, but I imagine him married to some woman I’ve never seen, that he’s connected to for the rest of his life, and my heart hurts a little. “I was in recovery for a couple months, but even after I was released, she didn’t tell me she was pregnant.”

  He pauses a moment. “It was a year before I knew I had a daughter. I was so angry with her for keeping that from me, but now that I know what it’s like to be a father, I might’ve kept it from me, too. I was unpredictable in her eyes, and she knew I didn’t want kids.” He laughs quietly, bitterly. “That’s one of the reasons she broke up with me in the first place. After my strained relationship with my dad most of my life, I didn’t want to perpetuate the cycle.” He’s staring out at something distant, fixating on a thought, a feeling, perhaps. “But then I met Casey, and . . .”

  We stand in silence. I’m still, reeling from his candor and trying to keep the questions at bay as I wait for the puzzle pieces to start falling into place. It’s all so close I can feel it, but I wait. Patient.

  Colton crosses his arms over his chest. “I wasn’t there for her first birthday because I didn’t know about her. And I was barely around when she was two because I was trying to get my shit together so I could be a good father to her. Then Kylie moved to Benton for work, and for three years I drove up here every other weekend from San Francisco and stayed with my cousin. I got to see Casey for a couple days, but that wasn’t enough.”

  “You moved here to be closer to her.”

  He looks at me.

  I understand his hesitation and know it’s not about me or him or us. Everything needs to be about Casey in his eyes, about making up for lost time and knowing she has a father in her life that she can count on and loves her. I know how important that is better than anyone. But there’s something else he won’t say: Kylie broke his heart. I can see it in his eyes, etched in his ever-present frown. I’ve seen it in his rare smiles and constant reluctance to have anything to do with me. The temptation and desire—none of it is worth it because if his feelings are anything like mine, they promise unbridled passion, but also rip-your-heart-out, salt-on-a-gaping-wound kind of pain.

  “I get it.” I don’t blame him for keeping his distance, even if I wish he wouldn’t.

  The shadows begin to fade and the room’s cast in an opal haze. He pivots to face me, his eyes finally drifting to mine. They look as saddened and pained as I feel in uttering the next words.

  I blink, needing to get through this before I decide I’m not so selfless. “I would never want to put you in a position that could jeopardize anything you have with your daughter. God knows, I have enough of my own shit to worry about.”

  His brow tenses ever so slightly before it softens again.

  And I can’t fathom a broken heart on top of it all, too. I’m aware I just admitted to myself for the first time that I can picture myself falling in love with him. This wouldn’t be so hard otherwise. It doesn’t matter that I barely know him, that we’re not really even friends. Finding out about Casey has only endeared me to him more.

  Before I lose my nerve, I lean forward a few inches and kiss his mouth—a soft final thank you for your honesty and goodbye all in one stolen moment. My lips linger against his until I hesitantly pull away.

  Eyes closed, I try to smile. “Just try not to look at me like I have a disease anymore, okay?” It’s a half joke, and I turn for my bed. “Everyone will be up soon. You should go.” I crawl in, under the covers, in hopes that the warmth will help ease my tension-filled body.

  “I’m sorry,” I barely hear him whisper, and then I hear his retreating footsteps.

  It’s silly that I feel like I’ve lost something I never even had.

  Twenty-Seven

  Mac

  I’m sitting in Nick’s apartment Sunday night, watching Marilyn and Monroe zip back and forth in their underwater haven. I’ve never seen two guppies more spoiled. They have a sunken ship to swim through, a rainbow of plastic seaweeds to play in, and cliff-like rocks to hide behind. Their little black fins flitter and fan about as they shoot from one corner to the other, completely carefree.

  I stare down at my phone again, at David’s number in my contacts. I want to call him, to talk to him about Mom and what’s been going on. I want to yell and scream at him and apologize for everything, too. I’ve never wanted to talk to him so badly or been so nervous. Nervous that he’ll answer, that I’ll hear the pain in his voice when I mention her name. Or that he’ll be annoyed that I called him at all. I’m nervous that he won’t answer and what that could mean.

  Pulling the gray woven blanket tighter around me, I press call and bring the phone to my ear. I could text him, but it’s not the same. He’s been on my mind—a constant, unshakable presence—for weeks. I need to hear his voice . . . and as soon as his recording answers the other end, my chest tightens with sadness and that strange sense of loneliness fills me again. One more tear in my life that has yet to be mended.

  Th
ere’s a long beep, followed by silence as I figure out what exactly I’m supposed to say. “It’s Mac. I don’t know where you are right now, and I’m sure you know this already, but I haven’t heard from you in months and . . . Mom’s back. We’re all fine, but—” My voice hitches in my throat and I squeeze my eyes shut as I try to control my reaction to the weight of every crazy thing in my life that creeps up to the surface. “It’s just, there’s a lot going on right now, and I’d like to know that you’re okay . . .” There’s nothing more to say, so I hang up the phone.

  It doesn’t matter that David and I aren’t close. He’s held a grudge against me and the world for as long as I can remember, but for whatever reason, I still miss him and I’m beginning to realize just how much.

  The front doorknob jiggles and turns, and I jump. As Nick steps inside the apartment, I hurry to smooth back any stray hairs, let out a heavy breath, and turn to face him. He’s wearing his ranch getup: boots, Wranglers, and a long-sleeve flannel with his cowboy hat atop his head.

  “Sup, girl,” he drawls with a smirk. “I figured you’d be out looking at apartments tonight.”

  I shrug under Nick’s stare, and I snuggle down into the blankets covering me. “It’s cold tonight, and I’m pretty tired,” I say. “It felt like a good night to stay in.”

  Nick lets out a deep, tired breath himself, and he drops his boots to the floor by the front door. “I don’t blame you. It’s unbelievably freezing out there.” He hangs his hat up on one of the hooks beside the door, along with his shrugged-off work coat. “Let’s light a blazing fire, watch a movie, and maybe order a pizza?” He’s unbuttoning his shirt, oblivious to how grateful I am to have him home.

  A genuine smile spreads across my face and the lingering ache around my heart abates. I might miss David, but Nick has been more of a brother to me than David ever has, and I’ve never been more thankful than I am in this moment. “That. Sounds. Perfect.”