Chapter 2
Lucy
The kitchen smells of coffee and bacon.
I hover in the doorway, smoothing my sweater for the third time, trying to convince myself I can act normal.
Ryder's at the table. Right across from my usual spot because the universe has a twisted sense of humor.
His hair is damp from the shower we share—the shower where, twelve hours ago, he walked in on me in the bathtub.
Heat creeps up my neck at the memory. The way his eyes went dark. The way I couldn't move, didn't want to move, wanted him to step inside and—
"Morning, Lulu!" Emma's voice snaps me back. She's watching me with knowing eyes.
I force a smile. "Morning."
Connor looks up from his phone. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep." I pour coffee with hands that want to shake. I've been avoiding Mr. Carmichael's emails for two weeks now—another one arrived this morning about the shop lease. The deadline for the building purchase is December 31st, and I'm still fifteen thousand short.
Not thinking about that right now.
I slide into my seat. Directly across from Ryder. Our knees are three inches apart under the table.
"Sleep okay?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
His eyes meet mine. Hold for one heartbeat too long. "No."
The single word hangs between us, loaded with everything we're not saying.
Emma clears her throat. I grab my toast.
Maisie saves us by launching into a story about the snowman she wants to build today, complete with a carrot nose and button eyes, and can Uncle Ryder please help her right after breakfast?
I watch him with her. The way his expression goes soft. The way he listens to her three-year-old logic like it’s the most important thing in the world. He’ll be a good dad someday.
The thought makes my chest ache.
Connor's phone rings. He glances at the screen. "Work. I'll be back in ten." He steps outside, and suddenly it's just the four of us—me, Ryder, Emma, and Maisie chattering about snowmen.
Ryder's knee brushes mine under the table.
I freeze. It could be an accident. Except it happens again, and I know it's not.
I look up. He's cutting his eggs, face blank, but his jaw is tight.
Two can play this game.
I shift in my seat. Let my knee press against his and stay there. Watch color climb his neck.
"Lucy?" Emma's voice cuts through the tension. "Can you help me in the kitchen? Now?"
Not subtle. Ryder's mouth tips at one corner, and I want to trace that almost-smile with my tongue.
I follow Emma to the kitchen. She rounds on me the second we're alone.
"So." She crosses her arms. "That was interesting."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Lulu. You both looked like you wanted to crawl under the table." She leans against the counter. "What happened?"
I close my eyes. "He walked in on me. Last night. In the bath."
Emma's eyes go wide. "He what?"
"The shared bathroom. He didn't knock, and I was—" Heat floods my face. "I was in the tub, and he just walked in and saw me."
"And?"
"And nothing. He left."
"Lucy." Emma's voice goes soft. "That was not nothing at breakfast. That was definitely something."
"I thought I was over him." The words tumble out. "I really did. It's been twelve years. I'm not some fifteen-year-old with a crush anymore."
"Maybe you didn't outgrow it." Emma reaches for my hand. "Maybe you just grew into someone he could finally see."
The words hit somewhere deep. I want to believe them.
"He's leaving in three weeks, Em. And Connor would kill us both."
"When was the last time you fought for something you wanted just because you wanted it?" She squeezes my hand. "Not for the shop. Not for the family. For you."
I don't have an answer.
By afternoon, the kitchen is a war zone of flour and sugar.
Cookie baking is a Wright family tradition—one Mom started when Connor and I were kids. Now Emma keeps it going, and none of us can say no without feeling like we're disappointing a ghost.
Dad's in his workshop. Connor's doing paperwork. And Ryder hovers by the door like he's planning an escape.
"You're staying," I tell him.
"I don't bake."
"You're about to learn." I hold out an apron. "Come on, Blackwood. Scared of a little flour?"
His eyes drop to where I'm tying my apron around my waist. Linger. Track up slowly to my face. "Not scared."
He takes the apron. Our fingers brush, and the same electric current from this morning shoots through me.
We work in comfortable chaos. Emma manages Maisie's "helping" which mostly involves eating dough and distributing sprinkles with wild abandon. Connor pops in to steal a cookie and gets smacked with a dish towel. And Ryder—
Ryder is good at this.
His hands are steady as he rolls out dough with even pressure. Confident. Sure. I watch those hands and think about them on my skin.
"You're staring," he says without looking up.
"Just surprised. Didn't peg you for domestic."
"I have hidden depths." He glances up. The corner of his mouth tips. "Want to find out what they are?"
Yes. God, yes.
"Lucy, pass the cinnamon!" Connor's voice breaks the spell.
We cut out shapes—stars and trees and bells. The first batch goes into the oven, and the smell of butter and sugar fills the house. Emma puts on Christmas music. Maisie sings off-key.
For a moment, it feels like Mom never left.
Decorating happens at the counter. Ryder and I end up across from each other with a tray of cooled cookies between us. His star is perfect—precise piping, even lines. Mine is an enthusiastic disaster.
"Yours has character," he says, studying my lopsided tree.
"That's a nice way to say it's a mess."
"It's not a mess." He glances up. "It's happy. Like you actually enjoyed making it instead of trying to make it perfect."
I busy myself with frosting before he sees how much those words affect me.
I reach for the white icing and misjudge the distance. Get a glob on my nose.
Ryder makes a sound—almost a laugh. "You've got—"
His thumb brushes across my nose. Warm. Gentle. Removing the frosting with a touch that makes my breath catch.
Our eyes lock.
His thumb doesn't move. Stays there. Then slides down to trace my bottom lip in one slow pass.
My lips part. I taste sugar. Feel the faint callus on his thumb.
"Lucy." My name is gravel in his throat.
I lean forward. Just an inch.
"Hey Blackwood!" Connor's voice shatters the moment. "Quit making googly eyes at my sister and pass the red frosting."
Ryder jerks back as if I burned him.
Connor laughs, already moving on to help Maisie. But the words stick with me. Making googly eyes at my sister. Like it's a joke. Like the idea is ridiculous.
I focus on my cookie. Spread green frosting too thick. Ryder doesn't look at me for the rest of the afternoon.
Later, after Maisie's nap, I see Connor pull Ryder aside in the living room. They talk quietly. I can't hear the words, but I see Connor's face—that big brother smile that isn't entirely joking.
When they're done, Connor claps Ryder on the back and heads upstairs.
Ryder stays. Runs his hand through his hair. His eyes find me in the kitchen doorway.
For a second, I see it. Want. Frustration. Regret.
Then he turns and heads upstairs without a word.
***
I find Emma folding laundry after dinner.
"I think Connor talked to him." I close the door behind me.
She looks up. "About?"
"Me." I lean against the dryer. "Had to be. The way Ryder looked after—" I stop. "Whatever Connor said, it worked. Ryder won't even look at me now."
"What do you think he said?"
"Probably that I deserve someone stable. Someone who's not leaving in three weeks. Someone who's not him." The words taste bitter. "And he's not wrong."
"Is that what you want? Stable?"
"I don't know." I slide down to sit on the floor.
"That's a lie. I know exactly what I want.
I want Ryder to look at me the way he did this morning.
I want his hands on me. I want—" I press my palms to my eyes.
"I've been in love with him since I was fifteen, Em.
Fifteen. I watched him date other girls.
Watched him leave every time. And I told myself I was over it, that I'd moved on, but seeing him again—" My voice cracks.
"I want him. Even knowing he's leaving. Even knowing it'll wreck me the same way it did every other time. "
She sits beside me. "Then take him."
"What?"
"Stop waiting for permission." Her voice is fierce. "Stop waiting for him to choose you. When do you get to fight for what you want? When do you get to be selfish?"
"What if he says no?"
"Then at least you'll know." She takes my hand. "But that man at breakfast did not look at you like he wants to say no."
I think about his eyes. The hunger there. The way his knee pressed against mine.
"Connor will be furious."
"Connor will survive." Emma pulls me up. "The question is—are you brave enough?"
I don't answer. But the question sits in my chest like a stone.
Another email from Mr. Carmichael is waiting on my phone. Another reminder that I'm running out of time—for the shop, for Ryder, for everything.
I leave it unread and head upstairs.
Sleep is impossible.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, hyperaware that Ryder is twenty feet away through the bathroom we share. I hear water running. Hear him moving around. Hear his door close.
Silence stretches. Heavy. Loaded.
I replay the bathroom incident frame by frame. The shock on his face giving way to heat. The way he looked at me—not like Connor's little sister. Like a woman he wanted.
And the frosting moment today. His thumb on my lip. The hunger in his eyes before Connor interrupted.
He wants me. I know he does.
But wanting isn't enough when my brother is in the way. When Ryder's leaving. When I'm fifteen thousand short of saving my shop and can't afford another disaster.
I roll over. Punch my pillow. Try to sleep.
But all I can think about is Ryder Blackwood on the other side of that door, and whether Emma is right—whether I'm brave enough to fight for what I want.
Even if what I want could break me.