If, while out battling those fires, he fought inner demons, trying to quench them the way he and his crew squelched nearly uncontrollable blazes from time to time, well, no one needed to know that but him.

Only, Sophie had read about his bleakest moments—and his biggest mistake. She knew the truth.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking truly remorseful that she’d pried between the pages of his private hell. “I opened it thinking I might find a name so I could return it, but there wasn’t one.” Grimacing, she continued. “And, well, the truth is that once I started reading, I couldn’t stop.”

She’d read it all. Of course, she’d read it all. She probably thought him a monster.

As much as he wanted to look away, he didn’t. Jaw locked tight, he kept his gaze unyielding as it met hers. He could handle whatever judgement she placed on him.

Lord knew she couldn’t judge him any more harshly than he judged himself.

“How did you figure out it was mine?”

“There was a Christmas card addressed to you inside a crossword puzzle book that came from the same box. I stuck the card there, inside your journal.”

Without looking at the book, he knew the one she meant. Why had he kept the photo card his mother had sent?

“Toss it as well.”

“But…” she paused, “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” He didn’t want the sentimental reminder of the family he’d never felt a part of any more than he wanted the journal. His mother had her new life, as did his father, complete with new families. There wasn’t a place for him in that picture—but at least they were happy. That was enough for Cole.

“I’m so sorry for what you went through,” Sophie said softly, hugging the journal to her as if she was clinging to the book in effort to keep her hands to herself. As if she wanted to reach out to him.

He didn’t need or want her pity. He’d rather she screamed and yelled at him for his failures. Feeling sorry for him? That, he couldn’t take. He wasn’t some emotional charity case needing her Christmastime goodwill.

He was fine.

Frustration and anger that she’d read his journal burned, taking hold and quickly consuming him. The rational part of him knew it was his fault for not realizing the journal was in the donated box, but in this moment, rational thinking didn’t matter. That book had never been meant for anyone to read, and especially not the bubbly, full-of-goodness woman he’d met over the summer. She never should have been exposed to the pure ugliness marring the pages. Marring him.