“It made you mad that he offered? Or what?” She was still trying to understand his mood earlier. She didn’t see how a well-meaning job offer could piss him off.

Cole again put space between them, then sat up, propping the pillow against the headboard and leaning against it, letting out an aggravated sigh. He ran his hands over his face, and though Sierra knew she should forget the whole conversation, she didn’t take back her questions. Waited for him to answer.

“It’s fucked up,” he said.

She sat up next to him, pulling the blankets with her. “What is?”

“You ever wonder how your life might be different if you’d made one different decision at some point in the past?”

She cradled her knees to her chest, rested her head on them, her face turned toward him. “Sure. Like, what if I’d gone to a four-year college, or what if I’d sold the business and gone to work for my brother’s company instead?”

“You ever get any good answers?”

She thought for a moment, then said, “No. I don’t think too hard about it because I believe every little thing gets us to the place we are, makes us the person we are.” At his silence, she said, “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Get any good answers?”

“I mostly try not to think about it too hard because I’ve fucked up a lot.”

She didn’t see that, but she was still getting to really know him. Starting to sense that he was hard on himself, judged himself harshly. “But tonight you’re thinking about it?”

“Mason and Gabe told me some stuff that got me started.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“They said they wanted me to work for North Brothers when I graduated from high school.”

“Which you didn’t want to do,” she said, remembering what he’d told her before.

She could see him narrow his eyes in the dimness. “I don’t know. That’s what I wanted everyone to think, because”—he laughed, but there was no humor in it—“I didn’t figure they wanted me.”

“I get it. You went on the offensive. Thinking they didn’t want you, you made sure they knew you didn’t care because you weren’t interested in the first place.”

“Pretty much.”

“Seems human.”

“Seems immature.”

“You were eighteen and grieving.”

“And stubborn and stupid and pissed at the world.”

“And eighteen and grieving,” she repeated.

He didn’t answer, just reclined his head against the headboard, his gaze pointing toward the ceiling. She could feel his emotions pouring off him, negative ones.

“So you’re thinking what if you hadn’t been grieving and had gone to work with your brothers at eighteen?”

“Maybe.”

“What if you had? You’d be doing something way different. Not construction. Brain stuff, which you’re good at. Do you think you’d like that?”