India’s entire body relaxes when we climb into my Jeep, but her teeth don’t stop chattering. Her clothes must be as frozen as mine are, so I don’t waste any time with pleasantries. I just throw it into drive and press gently on the gas, the wheels catching on the snow.

I didn’t lie to her. It’s not far to my house, which used to be a log cabin for some summer people. I gutted it and turned it into a place a human could actually live in for four seasons a year.

When I park in front of the house, India’s door less than ten feet from the front entrance, she hesitates, her jaw clenching.

So, as always, I lead the way. I push open my door and hop out, slamming it behind me, and then I go around to her side and open the door.

“Are you coming?”

“Yeah,” she says, and swallows hard. The paper grocery bags crackle as she pulls them a little tighter in to her chest and gathers herself to jump down. At least the snow isn’t so damn deep here. I spent all day yesterday plowing, and it looks like tomorrow I will be doing the same thing.

Why the hell have I bothered staying here, in this godforsaken town in the middle of northern nowhere?

Because you were hoping for this chance.

I won’t even entertain that kind of bullshit, and I don’t know why the thought rings in my mind like a bell, but I have to look away from India. This isn’t a second chance. It’s just a fucking coincidence. It’s not like she came back to town to see me. Never has. Never will.

I unlock and push open the door to the house and let India step inside first. My chest ebbs warm with pleasure when I hear the tiny gasp she tries to hide, standing stock-still in the entryway.

“Holy shit, Dawson.” Her words sound surprised, soft, like she’s completely forgotten herself. I pull the storm door closed behind me, then step to her side and press the inner door shut, locking it against what, I don’t know. Nobody ever comes here, which is how I like it.

India turns to face me. “Did you do all this yourself?”

I shrug. “Most of it.”

“It’s gorgeous.”

She tears her eyes away from me and takes another look around, her eyes traveling slowly over the trim, the hardwood flooring, the gleaming but tiny kitchen. Her clothes drip water onto the tiling of the entryway, which leads directly into the kitchen—beyond it is my living room. It looks tiny as fuck from the outside, but I have a master bedroom and a guest room. It’s not some shitty hovel, like her parents probably think I live in, if they ever think of me at all these days.

India takes one more step into the kitchen like she’s going to put the groceries on the counter, then looks down at the puddle beneath her. “Oh—I’m sorry.” A new flush of color comes to her cheeks and it just about undoes me right then and there. What is it about her that makes me forget, over and over, what she did to me for just long enough to think—?

She’s kicking off her shoes, shoving them back toward the mat just inside the door, but her clothes are still soaked.

“You have to get out of that stuff.”

Her eyes narrow for a split second, and then her forehead wrinkles, her mouth opening, then closing.

“I can dry them for you,” I try again, and every word is a dagger in my heart. My heart jitters against my ribs. I don’t know why I’m working so damn hard to make her think I don’t want to fuck her, right now, on the kitchen counter. Or even on the kitchen floor.

Once the need to do that becomes an actual thought, it becomes almost fucking unbearable.

“Here. Come on.”

I step toward her and take the grocery bags from her hands, making contact with the delicate line of her wrist. She shivers at my touch, biting her lower lip, and then she looks down.

I know that look.

I could never forget that look.

I put the bags on the counter and then move farther into the house, going five steps before I realize she’s not with me. She’s still just standing on the tiles, eyes locked on me even while she starts to shiver again.

“You coming?”

“Yes.”

Her voice is soft, yielding, and I want more of it.

But I can’t have it.

She’s here because she crashed her fucking car into a ditch. God knows what her life is like now, but I’m not going to screw with it. Not after what happened back in school. I’m still fucking embarrassed over how much it shattered me not to be with her.

I lead her through the living room and down the hall to the right, toward the guest bedroom and bathroom. There are clean towels already on the shelf inside. Nothing fancy, but fucking washed and dried, thanks.

I press open the door and let her go in.

“All yours.”

I remodeled this bathroom last summer, tearing out some ugly as hell wallpaper from the sixties and replacing all of it with decent-looking paint and tile.

India turns back to me, hugging her arms to her chest, and bites at her lip again. “Do you—do you mind if I take a shower? I’m freezing.”

“I’m going to do the same. Towels are in that cabinet.” I gesture to a cabinet on her left.

She draws in a sharp little breath, then nods.

“If you want to leave your clothes outside the door, I’ll bring you some dry things.”

Where the fuck is this nice guy act coming from?

“Okay,” she whispers, and I back out before I can kiss her.