Chapter 5
SLOANE
Aside from a couple of brief wake-ups when thunder sounds outside of the cottage, I sleep like the dead, and it takes me a moment to orient myself when my eyes flutter open in the morning and the small alarm clock on the side table beeps lightly.
The office is filled with a light airy glow, and when I see the framed poster of a topographic ocean depth map above the desk on the other side of the room, I remember where I am. The clock says seven-thirty. I could have slept until noon.
The sound of a coffee machine sputtering travels from the kitchen.
Ryan’s up. Soon we’ll be getting in his truck and driving hours together to Seattle.
The thought of being in close quarters with him for that long makes me…
not nervous. It makes me…what? I investigate the feeling in my stomach.
Anxious? Disappointed to be leaving? Turned on?
I think about when I’d touched his arm on the beach. I hadn’t intended on it, but I can’t wipe the feeling away, the crook between his bicep and forearm, steady and strong. I lay back in bed, for a moment indulging in the thought of those arms around me.
Then I remember why I’m here. It feels like a forbidden daydream. I’m supposed to be married to another man. I was hours away from using some fancy fountain pen to scrawl my name across the marriage certificate, committing my intent to make it work. To be grateful.
Ryan gave me another pair of pants and a crewneck sweatshirt last night to wear today. They’re laughably large on me, so I’m happy not to have to swim in these on public transportation. I’ll have to figure out a way to get them back to him.
I dress and make the bed, then spend a few minutes in the bathroom putting myself together as well as possible without access to my usual creams and makeup.
It’s freeing, simply running a borrowed comb through my hair, brushing my teeth, and washing my face with Ryan’s drugstore body wash.
This stripped-down routine is an indulgence that feels almost like a transgression.
When I enter the kitchen, Ryan’s tipping a pan of scrambled eggs into a bowl, which he puts on the table, where a plate of crispy bacon, a jug of orange juice, and a pile of toast are waiting.
It’s a little bit strangely arranged, like a kid making a mother’s day brunch, but it warms me that he’s gotten up early to feed me.
And the prospect of bacon makes my stomach rumble.
“Hey,” he says, a light grin tugging on the corners of his mouth. His hair’s a little mussed up and his eyes are sleepy, and for a moment I imagine waking up next to him. All of a sudden this is feeling very domestic but very enticing.
In a few hours, however, we’ll be saying goodbye and I’ll be back in my condo, trying to pick up the pieces of the life I shattered in a highly spectacular and very public way.
“Hey,” I say. “This looks great.”
“Coffee?” he asks.
“Please,” I say. “Can I do anything?”
“Have a seat,” he says, nodding to the table.
I sit down, and within seconds, Marshall’s head is on my lap. “Not sure if you heard him whining at my bedroom door in the night,” Ryan said. “He wanted to come visit you.”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” I say, scratching the spot behind his ears. His wagging tail threatens to collapse the table leg it’s beating against.
“Guess he can sense that you’re a would-be dog owner. Here, help yourself,” Ryan says, passing me a mug of coffee and a plate, then taking the spot across from me.
I spoon some eggs and spear some bacon onto my plate, and glance out the window. “It looks like it never rained,” I say. There’s fog, but the sun’s already threatening to poke through.
“It was another bad one,” Ryan said. “Went on for a few hours.”
“I slept through most of it,” I admit, then take a bite of bacon. Why I’ve deprived myself of this for so long, I can’t understand. It’s only been a couple of days and already that side of myself feels as foreign as another language.
When I look up, Ryan’s watching me, curiosity and amusement in his eyes.
“Delicious,” I say.
“We can make a stop halfway if you get hungry again,” he says. “But I thought we’d better eat before the drive.”
I have a little pang an hour later when I say goodbye to Marshall, and then again as we pull away from the cottage and onto the main road that will take us to the highway.
The road takes us through Wild Rose Point’s downtown area, where we pass a collection of cute and quaint shops, restaurants, and other businesses.
I can’t help but wince when I see a bridal shop called Seaside Vows, but even that feeling settles when I note the casual elegance of the main street.
Of all the places I could have ended up, this town’s actually somewhere I wouldn’t mind visiting.
There’s an air to the town that’s not necessarily sleepy, but definitely relaxed.
Not trying too hard. Not concerned with brand names or appearances.
It’s pretty without being showy. Comfortable in its own skin in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
Ryan’s been quiet this morning. Or is this his normal? I met the guy only two days ago, and yet, there’s something about the silence in the car that feels comfortable.
“Need anything before we get on the highway?” he asks as we approach the stop sign at the end of the strip.
“All good,” I say.
Ten minutes outside of town, we round a bend and come to an abrupt stop in front of a series of barricades blocking the road in both directions. It must have just been set up, as there are only a dozen or so vehicles ahead of us, a few of which are executing three-point turns.
Three emergency vehicles are parked, and one of the police officers is speaking to the owner of the car stopped ahead of us.
I look over to see Ryan craning his neck to look down the way. “Oh boy,” he said. “This doesn’t look good.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Not sure, but whenever they close the roads around here, it’s not a ten-minute fix.”
The officer approaches the car just as Ryan flicks on the four-ways.
“Hey there,” the man says, leaning in and peering past Ryan to me. “Sorry, but the road’s closed. Both lanes are covered ahead, and the slopes above are unstable.”
“What happened?” Ryan asks, looking toward the cluster of emergency vehicles with flashing lights in the distance.
“Big slide near Arch Cape after that storm last night. We’ve got geos out there now, but it’s a nasty one. They’re saying it might be up to three days.”
“Three days?” Ryan repeats. “Are you serious? We need to get to Seattle. Any suggestions?”
“Backtracking onto 76 is your only option, but it’s crawling. It’ll add seven, maybe eight hours. Honestly? Best bet is to head home and try again tomorrow. Hopefully everything’s cleared by then.”
Ryan’s jaw tightens. This clearly isn’t good news to him. And the tiny flicker of relief I feel that I can avoid facing Jack for a little longer dies the moment I remember what that means for me. More time with none of my things. Nowhere to go.
“Alright. Thanks, man,” Ryan says before rolling up the window. He executes a three-point turn just as another car pulls up behind us.
We drive in silence for a few beats before I finally exhale. “Honestly, just leave me at the town bus shelter or something. I’ll figure something out.”
“You think I’m going to dump you somewhere?
” Ryan cuts me a sideways look, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Listen. We’ll go into town, get you a few things.
I’ve got an old iPhone at my place. We’ll grab a SIM card at the convenience store so you have a way to contact people without relying on me.
You can stay in my guest room until the road clears. If you want.”
“Only if you’ll let me transfer you money from my bank account,” I say immediately. I am not taking on more charity. Once this nightmare is over, I’m never accepting a penny from anyone ever again.
The prenup flashes in my mind, twenty-plus million dollars, a stake in a vacation property, a cushy allowance if kids came into the picture.
A generous deal, my lawyer called it. I’d signed it, even though the idea of being handed money I didn’t earn felt foreign.
But, like everything else with Jack, I’d been coaxed along until my doubts felt unreasonable.
“It’s not necessary,” Ryan says.
“I insist. Unless there’s a Chase here. I can try getting a replacement debit card.” Although with no ID, that seems like an impossibility.
He turns back onto the town’s main strip, with its quaint storefronts, weathered cedar shingles, flower boxes under windows. “No Chase, but there’s an ATM on the corner. If it makes you feel better to transfer me something later, I’ll take out cash for you.”
I study his face. “Why do you trust me? You don’t even know me. I could disappear and never pay you back.”
“I’ll take solace knowing Addison and Jill made a few sales,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out into the cool air.
“Addison and Jill?”
“They own Dandelion.” He nods toward a storefront ahead with soft lighting and mannequins wearing outfits not far from what I’d normally wear. “I’ll be right back.”
From the passenger seat, I watch him at the exterior ATM. With his back turned, I can study him without feeling creepy. His broad shoulders form a clean V, and his jeans hang just right off his trim waist. He might be a strange hermit, but he looks like he walked out of a menswear campaign.
Not that I’m interested in anything like that right now. Absolutely not.
He comes back and hands me an envelope through the passenger window. “Three hundred dollars. Hope that’s enough to get you a few things.”
Three hundred dollars has never felt like so much. Jack once tipped more than that at Shutters in Santa Monica for a shared order of mussels and feta dip with two glasses of Sancerre without blinking.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “I’ll pay you back.”