Free Embers (Blaze Series Book 3) by Erika Chase

out.
    His breath catches and then he asks, “Is it
him? Gabriel. Are you two back together?”
    “No,” I answer quickly, and even to my own
ears I sound guilty.
    “But you’ve seen him?”
    I didn’t want him to ask because I cannot
lie to Sam. He deserves better. “Yes, he was here for a few days, but we’re not
together again. We just needed closure. And he’s gone back home.”
    “Did this closure involve you sleeping with
him?” His voice is tight, and I’m sure he already knows the answer.
    “Sam, please—”
    “You know, that’s not exactly fair, Katy.
You wanted to go back there and focus on your career, on your writing. I didn’t
know I was competing with Gabriel Call, too. Some of us work for a living and
can’t jet set around the country for you on a whim.”
    Sam doesn’t raise his voice when he’s upset.
It’s the exact opposite and the result is you’re left feeling like he is more
disappointed than he is angry. This makes me feel worse.
    “That’s not fair, Sam. I didn’t ask him to
come here. He just showed up, and it wasn’t for me. He had business
here, we ran into each other, and things just . . . Sam, the way we left things
was pretty shitty. It wasn’t like when I left you.”
    “Maybe you should stop leaving,” he snaps.
    I wince. The silence swells between us, the
cell phone hot against my face. “Maybe we should just talk in a few days.”
    I expect him to disagree, to want to hash
this out now. His reply is curt, and cuts me to the bone. “Maybe. I’ve got to
go, Kate.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
     
    I debate calling back and apologizing, but
my hurt feelings shift to anger. I was honest with him. That has to count for
something.
    Honest about sleeping with another man.
What did you expect him to do, Kate—congratulate you?
    I imagine that coming from Samantha Stone
and then Nat. I have a feeling they’d be in agreement on this one: I screwed
up.
    I grab my keys and a jacket. I’ll walk until
I clear my head, though I could probably walk all the way to Cold Ridge before
I sorted through these feelings of guilt and failure. I don’t make it that far,
and settle on finding clarity in the bar three blocks from the house.
    I sit at the bar, which is empty other than
a middle-aged couple nursing two beers and watching a baseball game on the TV
over the liquor display.
    This is only my second time here—the first
time was a few months ago when Sarah called and asked me to get a drink after a
tough day in the ER. I had one drink to her three and ended up half-dragging
her home.
    The same bartender—a tall redhead named Tony
with a curly beard—who was on duty that night is here now. I doubt he
recognizes me, but he offers up a friendly smile anyway when he asks, “What’ll
it be?”
    “Surprise me,” I answer.
    “Okay. You in the mood for something strong?
Fruity but strong?”
    “You know what? Surprise me again.”
    “You got it.”
    Tony returns a few minutes later with a
short glass filled with a dark brown liquid. It burns going down and within
moments my limbs feel light. I lick my lips and sip again. I nod my approval.
“Whatever this is, keep them coming.”
    I don’t believe I’ll find the answers in the
bottom of this glass, but it’s worth a shot. After one drink, I consider
calling Gabriel, just to chat, but I’m not drunk enough to accept this as a
viable option. And anyway, he’ll be just heading to the airport now. After the
third drink, I begin to type a heated text to Sam. Before I can hit send, Tony slides
another glass in front of me, and nods toward the couple at the other end of
the bar.
    “From Diane and Charles,” he says.
    I raise my glass in thanks, and Diane—a
puffy-faced blond—raises her beer mug in return. She calls out, “I saw you pick
up that phone several times. You don’t want to do that when you’ve been
drinking, honey. Trust me.”
    I decide she’s right and delete the text
draft from my phone.
    After an hour or