For Fox Sake

Chapter 4

Jake

Ryan is a woman. She’s talking. She must be. Her mouth is moving, and I’m sure sounds are emerging, but my head is buzzing and I can’t register any of it.

Ryan’s a woman.

An extremely attractive, funny, kind-to-small-children-and-animals—probably, she doesn’t look like she’d want to kick a puppy—woman.

What if we’re related?

My entire being tenses in revolt, gaze scanning over her features, searching for a possible connection. She has blue eyes.

Really vividly pretty blue eyes, actually.

All my family, myself included, have dark eyes, like Dad. The brightness of her eyes is offset by short dark hair that curls slightly around her ears and brushes the delicate skin of her neck.

Brown hair is a trait we share, but a lot of people have dark hair, right? I’m sure most of the world.

Her features are petite. She has a button nose and a gently sloped jawline framing a wide mouth—definitely not like anyone in my family with our more striking features, bold chins, and patrician noses.

We cannot be related.

She’s still talking, probably filling the void created by the gaping silence since I’m staring at her with my mouth hanging open like I’ve just had oral surgery and everything below my nose is numb.

“My parents thought I was going to be a boy and my grandfather is named Ryan, so that’s what they planned on. Even though I obviously turned out to be a girl, they kept the name anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I love it. But, yeah, it can cause confusion sometimes.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, chuckling awkwardly.

I rein in my scattered thoughts long enough to toss out some trite words. “It’s a great name, Ryan. I like it.”

Lame. The lamest. Pull yourself together, man! It doesn’t matter that Ryan is a woman. This changes nothing. I still have a mystery to solve.

And it can all end here, once I open my mouth and ask Ryan why she was exchanging letters with my dad and why those letters revolved around Mia, Ryan’s little sister.

Except, now that she’s standing right in front of me, the words aren’t coming.

How would I react if some stranger showed up, demanding answers about something that involved my departed sister? Not too friendly, and not ready to roll over and give up info, I imagine.

She jerks her thumb toward the kitchen. “Shall I check out the stove?”

“Yes. Right.”

She heads through the house, and I follow her.

“Do you want some water or something?” I open the fridge and pull out a plastic bottle. If she drinks from this, I can send it in for DNA testing.

“No. Thanks.”

I twist off the cap and take a drink. “Are you sure? I got plenty of bottles. They’re nice and cold and refreshing.”

She shoots me a confused look, her brows dipping.

Yep. I’m making it weird. There goes that idea.

She stands in front of the stove, pushing buttons, turning knobs, and of course nothing happens.

Would it be weird to offer to brush her hair?

How long will it take for her to figure out the issue? This same scenario happened to me at one of the cabins on my family’s rental property before we turned it into a camp. It took me a good thirty minutes to realize it was simply unplugged. I have no idea why the tenants decided to do it, it’s not like it’s easy to pull the appliance out from the wall and tug the cord out, then push it all back in, but people do weird things.

She twists around to look at me. “Can you help me get this out from the wall?”

“Of course.” Damn. She’s quicker than I was. Maybe it’s not surprising, since I was more than likely hungover at the time.

I stand next to her, wrapping my fingers around the back of the oven and tugging it forward on the right side while she mimics me on the left.

It’s a heavy, stainless-steel oven, so the motion is ungainly and at one point my hip brushes hers.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

“No problem. So,” she grunts as we get it out from the wall a few inches, then she pulls her phone from her back pocket and turns on the flashlight. “Where are you visiting from?”

After a second’s hesitation, I tell her the truth, if only to see her reaction. “I’m from Whitby. It’s in New York.”

She points the phone back behind the oven, peering down the back of it, and frowns. “Whitby? Never heard of it. I lived in Ithaca during high school and college. Though I didn’t have a chance to explore the rest of the state much.”

She didn’t even flinch. She’s either an Oscar-worthy actress, or she’s truly never heard of Whitby. Ithaca is only a couple of hours away, but Whitby is tiny. Confusion pokes at me, questions popping up in my mind like an unwieldy jack in the box. There were never return addresses on the envelopes the letters were in. A printed label adorned the front of each one with our home address. Is it possible she isn’t the letter writer? There can’t be another Ryan and Mia in Dull. “It’s a really small town, near the Catskills.”

She sighs. “It’s unplugged. I should have known those renters would do more than leave their crabs behind.”

“Crabs?”

She waves a hand. “It’s nothing. People are weird. So, is Whitby smaller than Dull?”

“Yep.”

She pulls back and grips the side of the oven again. “We have to pull this out farther to get the plug back in the wall.”

I help her wiggle the appliance farther and then she hoists herself up on the counter, lying on her belly to reach behind it.

The position showcases her trim waist, the subtle arch of her hip, and the curve of her ass in her tight jeans.

Lust blows through my body. My groin tightens.

Not the time. Not to mention the question of her paternity.

And with that thought, the lust exits as quickly as it rushed in, leaving me lightheaded.

I clear my throat. “Do you want me to do that? My arms are longer.”

“I got it.”

I keep my eyes focused on the corner of the stove while she finishes plugging it in and hops off the counter, wiping her hands on her pants. “That should do it.” She turns one of the knobs, and the red light on the cooktop lights up. “There it is.” She grins at me, the motion lighting up her whole face.

My heart stutters in my chest.

Literally, the organ shivers and then resumes beating like she just reached inside my ribcage and squeezed with the strength of her smile alone. What the ever-loving hell is going on?

“Uh, great. Thank you so much.” I move toward the door, not wanting to prolong this conversation for a minute longer because I really want to extend it as long as I can.

“No problem.” She blinks in surprise, following behind me. “Just send a message if you have any other issues.”

“Absolutely.” I open the front door and plaster a smile on my face as she brushes past me. “Thanks so much.”

She waves and jogs down the porch steps.

I shut the door and lean back against it. I cannot even consider being mildly attracted to this woman until I know more. It’s not like I can control it, but damn, if we’re related, that’s gross. Maybe only Mia was related?

There is no way to get Mia’s DNA, since she’s passed, but I have a plan to access her medical records if needed.

I groan and rub my head. How am I going to get Ryan’s DNA now? I still have options. She does live right across the street.

I have visions of sneaking around at night in a trench coat with a fake mustache and bowler hat.

That might be my best option.

My phone dings and I slide it from my pocket. It’s an email from Elaine, the business manager at the hospital, welcoming me to the team and outlining where to show up tomorrow, a reminder of the documents I need to bring, and some attachments to review.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

The information Dwayne obtained included where Mia worked before she died. She was a patient representative at the local hospital. I looked up the place online, checking job openings for months, and the minute there was an open maintenance position, I applied, had a phone interview with Elaine, and got the job.

Is this whole idea bananas? I moved to a new town—temporarily, sure—but clear across the country, obtained a job specifically where Mia used to work, and rented a unit specifically because Ryan manages it.

I move to the window, peering through the blinds.

Ryan is crouched down, talking to her daughter on the sidewalk. The little girl has chalk smudges all over her hands and smeared on her face.

I scan the side yard and driveway, and then arrive at the perfect plan.

Eureka.

Two garbage cans rest on the side of the house, one so full the top is propped up.

I truly am a trash panda.