Chapter 9 #2
Morning comes too fast. Lucy's phone buzzes on the nightstand—Mrs. Henderson's name flashing on the screen. Lucy's still curled against me, warm and soft. I nudge her awake and point to her phone, watching confusion cloud her sleepy face.
"Mrs. Henderson?" She sits up, pulling the sheet with her. "Hi. Yes, I know. I'm still working on..." She trails off. Listens. Her face does something complicated. "I'm sorry, what?"
I can't hear the other end, but I watch Lucy's expression shift from confusion to shock to something like hope.
"Someone paid fifteen thousand dollars? To your account?" She stands. Paces to the window. "Who? You don't know?" Pause. "Anonymous? But that doesn't... the transfer came from where?"
Her eyes cut to me.
"Boston," she says slowly. "The wire came from a Boston bank."
My pulse kicks in my temples.
"Mrs. Henderson, can you give me a minute? I need to... yes. Thank you. I'll call you back."
She hangs up. Turns to face me. Those eyes that see everything.
"It was you, wasn't it?"
I could deny it. Should. But looking at her face, hope and fear warring, I can't.
"Yes."
She sucks in air. Long moment of nothing. Then she sets the phone down with care.
"How?"
"Wired it last night. Directly from my account to hers."
"Fifteen thousand dollars." Says it slow. Testing weight. "You just... transferred it?"
"Yes."
"Why?" Voice cracks. "Why would you do that without telling me?"
"You needed it. I could help." I stand. Keep distance. "Watching you tear yourself apart was killing me."
"So you just fixed it? Made the problem disappear?"
"Yes." No apology. Not sorry. "I'd do it again."
"That's not..." She breaks off. Blinks fast. "I don't need you to save me."
"I know."
"Do you? This feels like you trying to fix my problems. Like I'm some charity case who can't handle her own life."
"Not what this is."
"Then what?" She whirls. "Explain it, because I'm trying to figure out if I should be grateful or pissed, and I don't know."
Words press against my throat. I love you. This is what I do when I love someone. Show up. Help. Make things better because I'm shit at saying what I feel.
The words won't come.
"I care about you." I manage that much. "I care about your dream. This was something I could do, so I did."
"Fifteen thousand dollars." Her voice shakes. "Not a small amount."
"It is to me."
Her eyes flash. "Not to me. It's nearly a year's salary for most people in this town. Difference between making rent and not. It's..." Stops. Breathes. "Too much."
"Already done."
"Then I'll pay you back."
"Lucy..."
"No." Cuts me off. Voice firm. "If you want to help, if you really care about me and my work, you'll let me pay you back. Not a donation. A loan. With interest."
I want to argue. Want to tell her she doesn't have to. That I don't need the money. But looking at her face, that stubborn jaw and proud eyes, I realize this isn't about money.
It's about agency. Independence. Same strength that drew me first.
"Okay. We'll set up a payment plan. Whatever works."
Tension leaves her shoulders. "Thank you."
"But Lucy?" I step closer. "Not sorry I did it."
"I know." She touches my face. Tears on her cheeks. "And I'm not sorry you did either. Just... need you to understand I have to do this my way. Even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts."
"Understand."
She kisses me. Soft. Slow. Eyes wet when she pulls back.
"Thank you. For caring. For wanting to help. For seeing my dream as something worth saving."
"Always."
She pulls me into a hug. Holds tight. I breathe in the vanilla scent of her hair and feel the terror of it in my ribs.
New territory. Caring about someone so much the thought of losing them makes breathing hard.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of phone calls and paperwork as Lucy finalizes everything with Mrs. Henderson. I stay close, making coffee when she needs it, ordering lunch when she forgets to eat. By the time the sun sets and the last document is signed, she's glowing with exhausted triumph.
"It's mine," she keeps saying, like she can't quite believe it. "The building is actually mine."
"You earned it."
"We earned it." She takes my hand. "I know you say it was nothing, but it was everything to me."
The words stick in my throat again. The ones I should say. The ones she deserves to hear. Instead I pull her close and kiss her until we're both breathless, until gratitude shifts into something deeper.
We barely make it through dinner at Jim's house. Connor's working late at the office. Emma's at a friend's with Maisie. Jim's in his wood shop in the garage. The house feels empty, and the tension between us is electric.
After we clear the dishes, Lucy catches my hand and leads me upstairs.
We're being reckless—Connor could come home any minute, Jim could finish his project—but neither of us cares.
Not tonight. Not when she's looking at me like I hung the moon, when her gratitude and relief and want are written all over her face.
She pulls me into my room and closes the door. Locks it.
The click of the lock seems loud in the quiet house. She turns to face me, and there's something different in her eyes tonight. Not just desire, though that's there too. Something softer. Deeper.
"Come here," she whispers.
I cross to her in two steps. She slides her hands up my chest, over my shoulders, into my hair. Pulls me down for a kiss that starts gentle and builds slowly. Thoroughly. Like she's trying to tell me something she doesn't have words for.
This time is different from the cabin. Less frantic. More deliberate. We've learned each other now, and there's a confidence in the way she touches me, the way I touch her. But underneath it all is something deeper—gratitude mixed with tenderness, relief wrapped in desire.
She tugs at my shirt and I help her pull it off. Her hands map my chest, my ribs, the muscles of my shoulders. Like she's memorizing me. When I reach for the hem of her sweater, she lifts her arms and lets me undress her slowly. Each piece of clothing another layer of vulnerability between us.
When we're both bare, she takes my hand and leads me to the bed. We sink down together onto the quilt Connor's mom made years ago, and I try not to think about the risk we're taking. Try to focus only on her.
She pulls me down for another kiss, deeper this time. Her hands slide down my back, nails scraping lightly, and I groan against her mouth. I kiss along her jaw, down her throat, tasting the salt on her skin. She arches into me when I reach her breasts, her fingers tightening in my hair.
"Ryder," she breathes.
I take my time. Kiss every inch of skin I can reach. Learn the sounds she makes when I touch her here, kiss her there. By the time I settle between her thighs, she's trembling.
"Please," she whispers.
I reach for the condom on the nightstand—we've learned to be prepared—and she watches me roll it on, her eyes dark with want. When I settle over her again, she spreads her legs wider, welcoming me.
When I slide inside her, we both freeze. Her eyes lock on mine in the dim light filtering through the curtains. I can see everything in her face—desire and gratitude and something that looks like wonder.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For today. For caring. For seeing what this means to me."
The words stick in my throat again. I love you. The ones I should say. The ones she deserves to hear. Instead, I kiss her and hope she feels what I can't say. Pour it into the way I touch her, the way I move inside her.
I start slow, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Savoring the feel of her around me, tight and wet and perfect. She wraps her legs around my waist and tilts her hips up, changing the angle, and we both moan.
"Is this okay?" I ask, voice rough.
"More than okay." Her hands slide down my back, nails digging in. "Don't stop."
I don't. Keep the steady rhythm even as she starts to move with me, meeting each thrust. The bed creaks softly beneath us and I think about Connor, about Jim in the garage, about the risk.
But then Lucy makes that sound—the desperate little gasp that means I'm hitting the right spot—and I stop thinking altogether.
I brace myself on one forearm and slide my other hand between us, finding the spot that makes her gasp louder. She bites her lip, trying to stay quiet, and it's the hottest thing I've ever seen.
"Let me hear you," I murmur against her ear. "Just a little."
She does. Soft whimpers and breathy moans that make me want to slow down and speed up all at once. I feel her tightening around me, her breathing getting faster, and I know she's close.
"Come for me," I say quietly. "I want to feel it."
Her inner walls flutter, then clench hard around me.
She arches up, pressing her chest against mine, and I feel the exact moment she tips over.
The way her whole body goes taut, then shudders.
She buries her face in my shoulder to muffle the cry, and the feel of her coming apart around me is almost enough to pull me under.
Almost. But I want more. Want to give her more.
I wait until the aftershocks ease, then start moving again. Slow and deep. Her eyes fly open, surprised, and I see the moment she realizes I'm not done with her yet.
"Ryder—"
"Again," I say. "Want to feel you come again."
"I can't—" But her body says otherwise. She's already sensitive, already building again, and when I shift the angle just slightly, she gasps.
This time it's faster. Her body knows what's coming, knows what I can give her. I watch her face as the pleasure builds—the way her lips part, the flush spreading down her neck, the little crease between her brows. She's so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
When she comes the second time, it pulls me over with her. I bury my face in her neck and let go, feeling her clench around me in waves as I empty myself inside her. The pleasure is so intense it's almost painful, and I think I might say her name. Might say other things too.
When I can breathe again, when the stars behind my eyelids fade, I realize I'm crushing her. I try to move but she holds me tight.
"Stay," she whispers. "Just for a minute."
So I do. Stay buried inside her, feeling our hearts pound against each other, feeling her breath against my neck. And I know, with absolute certainty, that I'm in love with her.
Have been for a while now, probably. But this moment—her trust, her gratitude, her body still trembling beneath mine—seals it.
I'm in love with Lucy Wright, and I'm in so much trouble.
After, we lie tangled together in my bed, both of us knowing we're pushing our luck. Connor could be home any minute. But neither of us wants to move.
"Stay," I whisper into her hair. "Just a little longer."
"Okay." She presses closer, her breath warm against my neck. "A little longer."
But we both know she'll have to sneak back to her room soon, before anyone notices.
She settles against my chest. I hold her while our breathing evens out. While the sweat cools on our skin.
Three words press against my throat.
They don't come.
So I hold her tighter and hope she feels what I can't say.
Hours later, she's asleep in my arms and I'm still awake. Staring at the ceiling. Words trapped behind my teeth.
Three simple words. Should be the easiest thing in the world.
I love you.
My throat closes every time I try. It's the same paralysis. The same inability to translate feeling into language. I've been this way my whole life. Showing up instead of speaking. Doing instead of saying.
Lucy shifts. Her hand finds mine in sleep. I lace our fingers and feel the terror of it in my ribs.
I think about my parents. How Dad never said what Mom needed until it was too late. All the moments I stayed silent. The times I let actions speak when words would have been kinder.
I think about Lucy. How she looks at me like I'm worth something beyond my slapshot. How she deserves someone who can give her everything. Not just the easy parts.
The words hang in darkness. Unspoken but present.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Maybe tomorrow. Maybe morning brings courage.
But deep down I know the truth. I'm not afraid of getting hurt. I'm afraid that loving her this much, needing her this much, makes me vulnerable in ways I've never been.
Vulnerability has never been my strong suit.
Lucy murmurs in sleep. Curls closer. I hold tighter. Press a kiss to her hair.
For now, this has to be enough.
But lying here in the dark, her warm and soft against me, I know it won't be. Not long-term. Not when she deserves someone who can say the words as easily as he shows them.
The realization doesn't change anything. Can't make my throat unlock. Can't force the words past my teeth.
So I hold her and tell myself tomorrow will be different.
Knowing it won't be.