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It hits me that I haven’t seen her much lately. I don’t know what she’s been doing. How she’s feeling.

Shit.

Reese tucks her petite frame into the corner of the couch. She pulls her legs up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, hugging them tightly against her chest.

Everything about her body language communicates a big, fat leave me the fuck alone.

I sit on the ottoman across from her and put my hands on my knees. Our eyes meet.

“Listen, Nate. I’m not sure how to say this, so I’m just going to come right out with it.” She licks her lips. Her eyes are wet now. “I’m not feeling great about this. Us. And I . . . I don’t think we should get married.”

I go completely still, my mouth suddenly dry.

Out of all the things Reese could’ve said, I wasn’t expecting that.

I was not expecting that.

There’s a massive shift inside my chest, a shadow of pain and regret and panic that finally cracks the damn thing open. Gasping for breath, I put a hand over my heart, willing it to stay inside my body, to keep working so I can figure out how the hell I actually feel about all this.

I had no idea Reese wasn’t happy. I didn’t know she wasn’t feeling great about us.

What does it say about me as a fiancé that I was clueless about where Reese’s heart was at? Granted, I’ve felt lonely lately and haven’t talked to her about it. But this—

This is different. Or is it?

“Wow,” I manage.

Reese straightens one of her legs, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. “I’m really sorry, Nate. I know this probably seems like it’s coming out of nowhere, especially because I was the one who proposed to you. It’s just . . .” She swallows and looks down at her lap. “It kind of dawned on me recently that my life here is great, but it’s not very me, you know?”

“I don’t know, actually.”

Now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t remember the last time Reese and I really, truly connected over a good cocktail and better food. The last time she confided in me, the last time we went for a drive, or talked about a book, or watched a movie together.

In fact, we haven’t spent much time together at all—time that wasn’t spent either working or talking about that work. So no, I can honestly say I don’t know Reese that well right now. And that scares me.

“I love Kingsley Distilling,” she continues. “I love how much you love what you do, and I love where we’re going with it. But I’m coming to the realization that I’m just not that interested in the spirits industry. Don’t get me wrong, I like whiskey. I just don’t love it the way you do. I don’t love it enough to be really, really good at it and make a career out of it. I hate to hurt you, Nate, but I have to be honest.”

I shake my head. “No, no, I absolutely want you to be honest with me. That’s been my goal from the start.”

It’s always been my goal to be honest with her too. And if I’m being honest right now? The shadow inside me is passing, and in its wake, I feel . . . relief.

Raw, real relief, that kind that makes me feel almost high.

“It took me going to Charleston and getting so freaking jazzed about what’s going on down there to make me see where my future lies. It also made me see that I’m not so jazzed about us.” Her eyes flick to lock on mine. “We’ve always been really, really good friends. But I think whatever spark we had in the beginning has died out. That dinner at Bubble—”

“Was a disaster,” I scoff.

“It got me thinking about how different we are. How we’re kind of living these parallel lives that don’t intersect anymore, not in a meaningful way. While I was gone, I didn’t think about us. I didn’t miss us. And we both deserve better than that.”

“I . . . don’t disagree.”

“Good.” She lets out a breath. “Well, not good, but I’m glad we’re on the same page. I was so worried . . .”

“About what? That I’d freak out?” I pause. “Are you disappointed I’m not freaking out?”

Her gaze is steady. “Not really, no. I think I’m actually relieved.”

“I think I am too.”

“I want you to know there isn’t anyone else.”

Another bit of info I wasn’t expecting. “Okay.”

She curls her hands into a knot on her lap. “I really hate the idea of hurting you, and I’d never do it intentionally. Does it make me a jerk to say I’m relieved that you’re relieved because that means I’m not tearing your heart to shreds?”

I laugh. “You couldn’t be a jerk if you tried.”