“You don’t think every time I looked at my father’s bourbon, I thought of you?” I whispered, using my phone to point to the bottle. “Remembering it was how I worked up the nerve to even talk to a man like you?” My arm dropped to my side. “Or remember the sweet taste of it on your lips when you first kissed me?” A stuttery breath slipped free. “Does that sound like obligation to you?”

His fingers tightened into his palms, a form of restraint I could so clearly see. He closed the space between us, dropping his head to look at me.

“And you don’t think I drank it all these years because of you? To remember you? That I drank it to feel something, anything at all, even if it was the pain of knowing I’d never see you again. I’d never find anyone who made me feel like you did in those three hours.” Emotion rattled loose from his voice. “I spent seventeen years thinking I was the only one who felt that way. Seventeen years of believing I was obsessed with a woman who didn’t even want me back. Do you know how much that fucked me up?”

I covered my mouth with my free hand, my fingers trembling at his admission. At the raw truth sitting between us.

“And it was all my fault. Your pain, Colin’s, and mine.” He rested his fist over his heart. “Because I left your room without saying goodbye and left a note. A fucking note,” he snarled, then walked backward, raising his hands in silent request not to talk or follow him.

I watched him walk out on me just as he did earlier, feeling wrecked all over again. I looked over at the bottle of Legacy Ridge, and since I was alone, I took my chance and poured two fingers.

My hand shook as I brought the glass to my lips, seventeen years of memories bleeding through my mind. I tossed it back like a tequila shot, and it burned my chest and heated my throat.

Easton calling again prevented me from another drink. I didn’t want to stress him out, but I had no clue how to talk to him while full of so many conflicting emotions.

I set down the glass and accepted his call, but he changed it to FaceTime the second I did.

Ugh, great. He was going to see me red-eyed and on the hot mess express. “Hi.” I hiccuped, a reaction to quickly downing a bourbon meant to be slowly appreciated.

“Where are you?” Easton asked, a distressed expression crossing his face along with a worried tone.

“Give me a second.” I muted the call, went to my bedroom, and closed the door. I sat on the bed, unmuted it, and told him, “I’m not home.”