Page 3 of Walking Away

The man who, just an hour ago, had kissed her at the office before she took off. He’d said he was buried in work, but would try to make it home for dinner.

And now, here he was—with another woman.

Caitlin froze beneath the awning, bouquet trembling in her hands. The woman’s laughter rang out, light and careless. Jason brushed a strand of gold hair from her shoulder, then kissed her—not a greeting, but a slow, certain kiss that left no doubt who she was to him tonight.

Her stomach turned.This couldn’t be real. He wouldn’t do that to her. Not here. Not at their favorite restaurant.

The bouquet slipped from her grasp, petals brushing her wrist as they fell.Oh my God. This can’t be happening.

September evenings in Denver carried a crisp edge—the first whisper of autumn. Minutes earlier, Caitlin had stepped from the flower shop on Seventh Avenue, bouquet in one hand, keys in the other.

She loved this part of the city—brick sidewalks, bistro lights, the quiet hum of people heading home before dark.

Jason would’ve teased her for running her own errand.You can’t delegate a flower pickup?he’d say, flashing that grin that undid her. Ambitious, magnetic, polished—Jason West was the kind of man who believed success should gleam as bright as the finish on his gentian-blue Porsche 911.

Then she’d heard it—the low growl of a Porsche engine.Jason?

The car turned the corner and slid to a stop at Mizuna’s valet stand. For a heartbeat, warmth bloomed in her chest.He finished early. Maybe he’s surprising me.

She started toward the curb, bouquet tucked to her side, ready to lift a hand and call his name—until the valet opened the passenger door.

A tall blonde stepped out, gold hair spilling over a black dress that shimmered beneath the streetlight. Jason circled the car, slipped an arm around her, his fingers settling with an intimacy that twisted something deep inside Caitlin.

Behind the restaurant’s glass front, familiar faces turned. Mike and Sherry Banks sat at the bar—her next-door neighbors. Sherry’s eyes went wide in recognition, then narrowed—judgment.

Humiliation burned through her.

Jason leaned close and kissed the woman.

She didn’t remember walking back to her car.

Her phone buzzed on the seat beside her.Sorry, honey… I have to stay late tonight. Big closing tomorrow. Don’t wait up.

The words didn’t register at first. Then they sliced through her.He’d texted her from the restaurant.

Heat burned up her neck. The drive home blurred by—taillights, rain, tears.

When the gate at One Cherry Creek Drive swung open, the house rose before her—a perfect showpiece, every hedge trimmed, every window glowing gold. Jason’s dream, not hers.

She parked in the four-car garage, shut off the engine, and stared. Through the mudroom door, she could see the kitchen—the marble island, the coffee bar where she made his latte each morning. It all looked exactly the same—and nothing ever would be again.

She sank to the floor, cold tile against her knees. The sound of her quiet sobs echoed through the house.

Her heart was broken.

Chapter 3

Drift

Darcy

The sky clung to the last traces of night as Darcy stepped out of the Airstream, warm air carrying the faint scent of campfire ash and damp gravel.

The air prickled against her skin, so quiet she could almost hear her own heartbeat. The pond breathed mist, turning every shape uncertain.

She hadn’t slept. Every creak had sounded like footsteps, every sigh of wind like someone just beyond the walls. Instinctively, she checked the bag at her hip, comforted by the weight of the Glock.

She moved fast—rolling up the hose, disconnecting the water—each motion sharp and purposeful. As she bent to unplug the power cord, something caught her eye: a faint wisp of smoke curling up from a cigarette burning near the rear bumper. Someone had been there. Not long ago.