She had spent so many hours in this room with Sawyer when they were kids. Back when he was her best friend. They would play board games with Clara and listen to music and make plans to spy on the guests.

Once he became her boyfriend, Lucille had barred him from the room. Of course, that hadn’t stopped them from sneaking up every chance they got. They couldn’t hang out at Sawyer’s place, and Lucille was often busy with guests.

So when they wanted to be alone, this was where it happened.

She looked back at the bed. That was where—

All right. Enough.

She wasn’t a child anymore. She no longer lived in a pink fantasyland.

She went to the small ledge mounted on the wall near the door. All the rooms had one. When they turned over a room, they left the key on the ledge for the next guest.

Her key was there. Finally, something going her way on this wretched day. She picked it up and, with a strange calmness settling over her, left the room. She locked the door, stuck the key in her pocket, and went downstairs.

By the time she reached the main floor, she knew what she was going to do next.

It was time to head to Lawson’s Lager House for Operation: Get Shitfaced.

Slightly Shitfaced, she corrected herself. Operation: Get Slightly Shitfaced.

Operation: Get Shitfaced Enough to Temporarily Forget the Clusterfuck Her Life Had Become in the Span of One Short Hour but Not So Shitfaced That She Was Incapacitated Tomorrow Because Drinking Would Not Remove the Need to Un-Clusterfuck Her Life.

The bar was two doors down from the inn. She walked quickly, keeping her head down. She didn’t want to see anyone. Obviously she was going to have to—the funeral was the day after tomorrow. But for now she felt like a raw, exposed nerve masquerading as a human. She felt like—

The heavy wooden door to Lawson’s swung open just as she was about to grab the handle. Startled, she took a step back.

Dammit. Sawyer.

He was not in uniform. He was wearing an old London Knights T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans that somehow managed to hang loose on his hips and fit him to perfection. Despite the casual-bordering-on-sloppy vibe—or maybe because of it?—he looked amazing.

“Evie?”

Okay, good. All he had to do was open his mouth, and she suddenly didn’t care how amazing he looked. “What part of ‘Don’t call me Evie’ do you not understand?”

“Sorry. Habit. I wanted to say—”

“Are you leaving?” He had looked like he was. “Because if not, I am.”

“I am. I’m just—”

Wordlessly, she spun around and started back toward the inn. She wasn’t doing this with him. Maybe she could find some of that gross brandy Lucille used to drink.

“Okay, I’m leaving, Evie. Eve. I’m leaving.”