Chapter 8 Lucy
Lucy
I wake up in my own bed with Ryder's texts still glowing on my phone.
Last night at the cabin feels like a fever dream. His hands. His mouth. The way he looked at me like I was something precious. The way we fit together, clumsy and perfect at once.
My body still hums with the memory of it.
I roll over and stare at the bathroom door that connects to his room. He's on the other side of that wall, maybe thirty feet away. Close enough to touch, if I were brave enough to cross that threshold in daylight.
But daylight changes things. Makes them real. Makes them risky.
My phone lights up on the nightstand.
Ryder: "You awake?"
Me: "Unfortunately."
Ryder: "Regrets?"
The question makes my chest tight. Because no. God, no. Last night was perfect. But now we have to figure out how to exist in the same house, at the same breakfast table, pretending nothing's changed when everything has.
Me: "None. You?"
Ryder: "Not even one."
I'm smiling at my phone like a teenager when someone knocks.
"Lucy?" Emma's voice through the door. "You coming down for breakfast?"
I scramble upright, shoving the phone under my pillow. "Yeah! Be right there!"
"Connor made pancakes. Better hurry before they're gone."
Her footsteps retreat, and I exhale. This is fine. I can do this. I can sit at a table with Ryder and Connor and Emma and act completely normal.
Except I've never been good at lying.
The kitchen smells like butter and maple syrup when I finally make it downstairs. Connor's at the stove, flipping pancakes with the same focus he brings to everything. Emma's at the table with coffee and her phone. And Ryder—
Ryder's leaning against the counter, showered and dressed, looking completely unfair in a navy henley that makes his eyes even bluer.
He glances up when I enter. Our eyes catch. Hold. Something electric passes between us before I force myself to look away.
"Morning," I say, aiming for casual.
"Morning." Connor plates another pancake. "Sleep okay?"
"Great." The lie comes too quick, too bright. "Really great."
Emma smirks into her coffee.
I grab a mug and pour, hyperaware of Ryder behind me. When I turn to reach for the milk, we nearly collide. His hand steadies my elbow. Just that small touch—his fingers on my arm—sends heat racing through me.
"Sorry," he says, voice low.
"It's fine."
We stand there a beat too long. Close enough that I can smell his soap. See the faint shadow of stubble he missed shaving. Remember exactly what that stubble felt like against my skin.
"Pancakes are ready," Connor announces.
I step away quickly, taking my coffee to the table. Ryder follows a moment later, sitting diagonally from me. Safe distance. Appropriate distance.
Except his foot finds mine under the table.
I freeze, mug halfway to my lips. He's looking at his plate, cutting pancakes, expression perfectly neutral. But his foot presses against mine—deliberate, warm—and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
"So what's everyone doing today?" Emma asks.
"Shop inventory," I say. "Year-end counts."
"I'll help," Ryder offers immediately.
Connor looks up. "I thought we were going to work on the deck railing?"
"I can do both." Ryder shrugs. "Help Lucy this morning, work on the railing this afternoon."
"Since when do you care about bookshop inventory?"
"Since I'm trying to be useful." Ryder's tone stays easy. "And Lucy needs the help."
It's not a lie. I do need help. But Connor's eyes narrow slightly, like he's trying to figure out an equation that doesn't quite balance.
"Fine," he says finally. "But I need you after lunch."
"Deal."
Under the table, Ryder's foot slides along my calf.
I focus very hard on my pancakes.
An hour later, the shop is quiet when we arrive. I flip the CLOSED sign—Sundays are my day off—and lock the door behind us.
For a moment, we just stand there. Then Ryder moves.
He backs me against the door, hands framing my face, and kisses me like he's been starving for it. I make a sound—half gasp, half relief—and pull him closer.
"Missed you," he breathes against my mouth.
"You saw me an hour ago."
"Too long." He kisses down my jaw, my neck. "Been thinking about this since breakfast. Since I woke up. Since last night."
"We're supposed to be doing inventory."
"We will." His teeth graze my pulse point. "In a minute."
A minute turns into ten. Twenty. We end up on the couch in the back office, me in his lap, both of us breathing hard. His hands slip under my sweater—not pushing, just touching, relearning—and I arch into it.
"God, Lucy." His voice is wrecked. "You're killing me."
"Good."
He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of us. Then he pulls back just enough to look at me, and whatever he sees in my face makes his expression shift—hungry and tender all at once
"We should actually work," he says, though his hands tighten on my hips like he has no intention of letting go.
"Probably."
Neither of us moves.
"Tell me something," I say. "Something you didn't tell me last night."
His expression shifts—guarded, then considering. "Like what?"
"I don't know. Something true."
He traces patterns on my lower back, thinking. "I'm scared this is going to end before it starts. That we'll run out of time and I'll have to leave and it won't be enough."
The admission lands heavy between us. I cup his face, making him meet my eyes.
"So we make the most of the time we have," I say. "That's all we can do."
"Is it enough for you? Knowing I'm leaving?"
"It has to be." I kiss him softly. "Because the alternative is not having this at all. And I don't want that."
"Me neither."
We stay like that—foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air—until the tension shifts from desperate to tender. Then he kisses me once more and sets me gently off his lap.
"Inventory," he says firmly.
"Inventory," I agree.
We work side by side for the next two hours. It's domestic and normal and perfect. He counts. I enter numbers. We argue about my organizational system. He makes me laugh by finding increasingly ridiculous book titles.
"Listen to this one," he says, holding up a romance novel. "'The Duke's Forbidden Christmas.'"
"It's a classic."
"It's absurd."
"You're absurd." I snatch the book from him. "And you're in the wrong section. This goes in historical, not contemporary."
"They all look the same to me."
"Philistine."
He grins and pulls me close for a quick kiss. "Your philistine."
The words settle warm in my chest. Dangerous words. Claiming words.
But I don't correct him.
We finish the inventory around two. Ryder heads back to help Connor with the deck, and I spend the afternoon doing paperwork and trying not to think about tonight. About whether we'll find another excuse to be alone. About how dangerous this is becoming.
By the time I close up the shop and head home for dinner, my nerves are strung tight with anticipation. Connor's truck is in the driveway. So is Ryder's. Emma's car sits beside them, meaning we'll all be together for another meal of carefully maintained pretense.
Dinner is easier than breakfast, though. Connor's exhausted from working on the deck all afternoon and barely talks. Emma carries most of the conversation, telling stories about her students. Ryder and I are careful not to look at each other too much, not to let our hands brush when passing dishes.
We're getting better at this. More practiced.
I'm not sure if that's good or terrifying.
After dinner, Connor disappears to his room with his laptop. Emma settles in the living room with a book. I retreat upstairs, shower, and try to read in bed. But the words blur together. All I can think about is Ryder on the other side of that bathroom door.
When my phone screen illuminates the darkness hours later, I'm still awake.
Ryder: "You awake?"
Me: "Yeah."
Ryder: "Come to my room?"
My heart hammers. We shouldn't. It's too risky. Connor's just down the hall. One wrong sound, one creaky floorboard, and everything explodes.
Me: "Connor will hear."
Ryder: "We'll be quiet."
Me: "That's what we said last time."
Ryder: "And we were. Mostly."
I bite my lip, considering. Every logical part of me screams this is a bad idea. But the rest of me—the part that's still humming from this morning's kisses, from last night's cabin—wants him too much to care.
Me: "Five minutes."
I wait in the darkness, listening. When Connor's snoring filters through the walls, I slip out of bed.
The bathroom door opens silently. I cross the tiled floor in bare feet, careful to avoid the creaky cabinet. His bedroom door on the other side is unlocked. I ease it open and slip inside. He closes it soundlessly behind me.
"Hi," he whispers.
"Hi."
Then we're kissing again, urgent and careful at once. He walks me backward to his bed. We fall onto it together, swallowing each other's laughter.
"We have to be quiet," I breathe.
"I know."
"I'm serious, Ryder. One sound—"
He kisses me silent. "I know. Trust me."
I do. That's the terrifying part.
We undress each other slowly, mindful of every zipper and button.
His hands shake slightly when he reaches for the hem of my shirt, and I love that he's still nervous.
Still treating this like it matters. When we're finally skin to skin, he pulls the blankets over us—warmth and privacy and a cocoon against the world.
This time is different from the cabin. Less frantic.
More deliberate. We've learned each other now.
Know what makes the other gasp. Where to touch.
How to move. His mouth finds the curve of my neck, the hollow of my throat, and I arch into him.
My hands map the muscles of his back, feeling them shift under my palms.
"Lucy," he whispers against my collarbone, and the way he says my name makes me feel precious.
When he finally positions himself above me, our eyes meet in the darkness. There's something in his expression that steals my breath—want mixed with tenderness, heat tempered by care.