Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Candace
T he door jingles as I step into Jumpin’ Jacks, the familiar sound ringing like a warning bell or perhaps the starting bell of a boxing match. I should have believed it. The scent of food and booze wraps around me, comforting and predictable. Or at least, it should be.
But then I see him.
Ryan.
I thought I had prepared myself for this—thought I would be able to see him and feel nothing. I was wrong.
He’s sitting in a corner booth, halfway through a burger, his broad shoulders slouched just enough to look relaxed, but I know better. His presence is like a swift kick to my chest, knocking the air clean out of my lungs. For a moment, all I can do is stand there, frozen, staring into those stormy dark eyes that lock onto mine the second I walk in. There was a time I could read everything in those eyes. Obviously I had been wrong, and in any event, those days were past.
My stomach twists, and every ounce of confidence I’ve spent years building feels like it’s teetering on the edge. He’s back. He wasn’t supposed to be back. I hadn’t planned for this. He was just supposed to send a check. I’ve been blackmailing several people on the bank’s board to find reasons to reject the check. If he follows his previous pattern of thwarting me, he’ll have it delivered at the last possible moment, hoping to get under my skin.
That might have worked where that ski lodge in Christmas Valley, Vermont was concerned, but it wouldn’t work this time. Several members of the board have dirty laundry they don’t want aired, and I’ve made sure they know that if they don’t find a way to reject Ryan’s money, I’ll destroy them.
I look at him again. God, he’s still beautiful. Time has done nothing to diminish that. Run , my instincts scream, but I force my feet to stay planted. I didn’t claw my way to the top just to crumble the moment I’m faced with the past.
Taking a deep breath, I muster every ounce of composure I can manage and force myself forward, my heels clicking sharply against the scuffed wooden floor. My head is high, my shoulders back, my face a mask of serenity. If Ryan wants a reaction, he won’t get it from me.
I don’t glance at him again as I walk past, though I feel his eyes burning into me, hot and heavy. It’s like his gaze has weight, dragging over me, pinning me down. I keep my chin lifted and slide into the booth—my booth—the one directly beside his. Of course it is. Jumpin’ Jacks may be quaint and charming, but it’s also small, with limited seating, and tonight, the universe is determined to test me.
Fuck the universe.
I set my bag beside me, smoothing my skirt as I sit. The seat feels too warm, the space too close. I can practically feel the heat of his body from here, like a furnace radiating across the small gap between us. I will myself not to look at him.
The waitress appears almost immediately, her eyes flicking nervously between the two of us. The entire place feels too quiet, the usual hum of chatter and clinking dishes conspicuously absent. I know what they’re all thinking—what they’re all hoping. They’re waiting for a scene.
“Scotch, neat,” I say coolly, ignoring the way my voice feels too tight in my throat. “The single malt I had sent in.”
“I was curious, so I looked it up on the internet. Wow! That’s expensive.”
I know she’s trying to be nice, but I’m in a nasty mood. “After my first time in this dive, I knew I wasn’t going to drink that blended swill you serve. Now, get me my drink.”
The waitress nods, glances at Ryan, and then quickly scurries off, as if she can feel the tension rolling off both of us.
Across from me—well, technically across two tables and a slim booth divider—Ryan hasn’t taken his eyes off me. I can feel his gaze, steady and unrelenting, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to meet it. Instead, I take out my phone, scrolling through emails I’m not actually reading, pretending I don’t notice his attention.
The silence in Jumpin’ Jacks is deafening, broken only by the occasional scrape of a fork against a plate or someone setting their beer down. Everyone is listening, their curiosity palpable, but no one dares say a word.
The waitress returns with my scotch, setting it down with a shaky hand. “Anything else?” she asks softly.
“That’s all, thanks,” I say, my tone clipped.
Then I pause. No. He’s not going to run me out. “On second thought, bring me a steak.”
“Sure. How’d you like it?”
“Bloody.”
Her eyes widen, but she nods and retreats, leaving me alone with the warm burn of the scotch and the smoldering intensity of Ryan’s gaze.
The minutes stretch out like hours. My scotch sits untouched in front of me. The aroma is familiar and comforting, but I can’t bring myself to take a sip. I can’t focus on anything but him—his presence, his silence, the way the air seems heavier with him in the room.
My steak arrives with little fanfare. Ryan’s meal is a burger with fries. Why is it men can eat anything and still look like he does? I’ll have to work out an extra hour to keep this steak from ending up on my hips or ass.
The awkward stillness persists. Forks scrape plates, glasses clink against tables, but no one speaks. Not a soul.
I can feel my pulse thrumming in my ears, my skin tight with awareness. Ryan hasn’t said a word and hasn’t made a move, but he doesn’t need to. His silence speaks volumes, and it’s louder than anything he could say.
I take a steadying breath and pick up my fork, determined to get through this meal without giving him—or anyone else—the satisfaction of seeing me falter.
But deep down, I know this is only the beginning skirmish in the battle for the Celtic Knot Vineyard and winery. If Brennen had hired his new winemaker—Sophie something or other—sooner, he might have been able to pull this off without Ryan’s help, but he didn’t, and now I have Ryan’s little brother’s balls in a vice.
Ryan’s boots scrape against the tavern’s worn wood floor as he rises, and I know before I see him what’s coming next. Predictable. His presence looms over my booth, and I keep my focus trained on my steak, stabbing a piece of meat with far more force than necessary.
“Hello, Candace,” he says, his voice smooth and infuriatingly calm. I can feel it wash over me—just the way it used to. I loved his voice. The man could have read a dictionary, and he would have had my rapt attention.
I glance up briefly, just enough to meet his eyes so he knows I heard him. I want him to see no emotion in them. He needs to know how much I don’t give a damn. He and his family can do what they want. He will not snatch my victory from me. I look him over and then lower my eyes dismissively. My fork moves deliberately, spearing some baked potato. If he hadn’t been here, I might have indulged with butter and sour cream. Instead, I eat it plain. My attention is fixed on the plate as though he isn’t standing right in front of me. I don’t say a word.
“Long time, no see,” he continues, unperturbed by my silence. “You’ve been busy. Sapphire Development, right? You’ve had some success, but not in Christmas Valley. I hear you’re planning to turn my family’s vineyard into a resort.”
I stab at another piece of steak, my grip on the fork tightening. My heart thunders in my chest, but I keep my face impassive, my expression cool. Let him talk. Let him say whatever he wants. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“You know, I didn’t think resorts were your thing,” he adds, leaning a hand against the edge of the booth. “But I guess people change.”
My jaw tightens, and I shove a forkful of potato into my mouth just to avoid the temptation to respond or better yet to stab him with it. The potato tastes like nothing, tasteless and dry, but I chew mechanically, pretending I can’t feel his eyes boring into me.
“Still not talking to me?” he asks, his tone light, teasing, as though this is a game to him. “That’s fine. I’ve got time. I’ll just keep guessing. Let’s see… maybe this isn’t about the vineyard at all. Maybe it’s about me?”
That one lands like a blow, and I grip my fork harder, the metal biting into my palm. My pulse quickens, my skin heating with the anger I’m desperately trying to suppress. Of course, he thinks this is about him. It always comes back to him.
He leans in a little closer, lowering his voice. “Come on, Candace. You’ve gotta admit, this whole thing seems pretty personal. Time after time you come after me or someone I’m close to. Are you trying to get back at me for something? Is that what this is about?”
The fork in my hand clinks against the plate, my movements growing more forceful as his words sink in. My thoughts spiral, unbidden, to the reasons I’m here—the heartbreak, the humiliation, the years of rebuilding myself after he walked away. The memories crash over me, sharp and cutting, and my resolve starts to crack.
He doesn’t stop. “You know, I’ve been thinking… maybe this isn’t about revenge. Maybe it’s about closure. Is that it, Candace? You need closure? I was hoping we’d get that the last time you visited the club. It’s been a while since you’ve been to Leathers.”
I freeze, my hand gripping the edge of the table so hard my knuckles turn white. The heat rising in my chest boils over, spilling into my veins like fire. Every word he says chips away at my restraint, his tone so calm, so maddeningly confident, as though he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
And maybe he does.
“Nothing to say?” He presses, straightening slightly. “I guess that’s fine. I’ve always been better at doing the talking.”
That’s it. That’s the push too far.
I stand abruptly, the sudden motion knocking the table slightly and rattling my plate. My purse is in my hand before I realize I’ve reached for it, and I drop a fifty onto the table with shaking fingers. My resolve hardens with every passing second. No more games. No more letting him or any Murphy push me around.
Picking up my scotch, I look at him for the first time since he came over, my glare sharp enough to cut glass. His smarmy smile falters slightly, and for one satisfying second, I let him see the fire burning behind my eyes.
Then I throw the scotch in his face.
The liquid splashes, dripping from his jaw as he recoils in surprise. A stunned silence falls over Jumpin’ Jacks, the quiet so heavy I can hear my own breath.
I don’t wait for his reaction. I push past him, out of the booth, turning on my heel and walking out, my steps quick and deliberate. The door jingles behind me as I leave, but I don’t look back.
Outside, the night air is cool against my flushed skin, and I take a deep breath, steadying the wild storm of emotions coursing through me. He doesn’t get to win. Not this time.
My driver waits as I slide into the backseat of my Rolls Royce and then closes the door with a quiet thud. I glance briefly at him in the rearview mirror when he takes his seat. “Take me back to the Airbnb,” I say, my voice calm, even.
As the car pulls away, I sit back against the leather seat and let my resolve solidify further. Ryan Murphy is back, but he doesn’t scare me. He doesn’t own me.
I’m done playing nice, and this time he is not going to win.