Chapter 5
RYDER
I push back from Mom’s dinner table, the chair legs scraping against the old farmhouse floor.
“Thanks for taking Rhys tonight, Mom.” I drop my napkin, pick up my and Rhys’s plates, and stand to stash them in the dishwasher.
“Of course, sweetheart.” She’s already at the sink, running water over pots and pans. “You know I love having my grandson.”
Rebecca pauses on her way over to drop off her plate and holds up a hand. “Why is Mom keeping Rhys tonight?”
I look at him sprawled on his stomach on the living room rug with crayons scattered around him, working on an elaborate drawing that’ll end up on Mom’s fridge alongside two dozen others.
“Because I’m coming out.” I say it casually, like it’s no big deal. Because it isn’t. I’m allowed to have a life outside of cattle and tractors and bedtime stories.
Rebecca stares at me like I’ve announced I’m taking up competitive yodeling. “Out where?”
“To the Moonshine, where else? With you and Remy.”
Beck blinks. “Since when are you social?”
“Since Whiskey Wheelers are playing.” I cross my arms. “That a problem?”
“No.” My sister loads her plate in the dishwasher and goes back to sitting. “It’s just… you never come out. You’re home by eight, reading Rhys a story and falling asleep on the couch by nine.”
“The Wheelers don’t play in Blue Crescent Harbor often anymore. I figured I’d catch them.”
“Sure.” Rebecca studies me. “It’s just that I can’t remember the last time you went to a bar. Wasn’t it Travis Holbrook’s bachelor party? Three years ago?”
“Four,” Remy corrects. “And you left after an hour because Rhys had an ear infection.”
“Yeah, well, Rhys is fine now. And Mom’s got him. So I’m going.”
“You’re acting weird,” Rebecca insists.
I sneak behind her chair. “Maybe I want to spend quality time with my baby sister.” I wrap an arm around her head, pulling her into a noogie that has her shrieking and batting at my hands.
“Stop! Ryder, you ass, stop!” She fights me off, her elbow catching me in the ribs. “Gosh, you’re such a child!”
“Tell me how happy you are that I’m coming.” I release her.
“Fine!” Rebecca smooths down her hair, glaring at me. “I’m delighted.”
“You don’t sound thrilled. What’s the matter? You have a secret beau? Because Remy will bust his balls just as much as I would.”
“I can do my own ball busting, thank you. It’s not that.”
“What then?”
“Mmm… I might have mentioned to someone that you wouldn’t be there tonight.”
My pulse kicks up a notch. I hate that it does. Hate that I immediately know who she means without Becky having to spell it out. I lean against the counter, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “Who?”
“Faye.”
I expected it, but the name still shocks through me like a cattle prod to the spine. “You’ve been discussing me with her?”
Remy smirks. “Eager much?”
“I tried to get her to rat on you about what happened at school.” Rebecca’s grin turns wicked. “But she wouldn’t budge, kept her mouth shut.”
Faye didn’t badmouth me to my sister. She could have. Hell knows I gave her enough ammunition. But she didn’t.
“Miss Rose is not a rat!” Rhys pipes up, without lifting his head from his drawing but letting us know he’s been quietly listening to the entire conversation.
“That’s not what ‘rat’ means, buddy,” I call back. But the kid is right in spirit. Faye Rose isn’t a rat. She’s… a fucking unicorn? I turn to my sister. “Why would you tell her I wasn’t coming?”
“Because she asked.” Rebecca shrugs. Then levels me with a stare. “But don’t start blushing again, she just wanted to be sure you wouldn’t be there before she agreed to come.”
Remy chuckles. “He blushed?”
“Last time he saw her.”
“Ah, right, after she gave him a good old spanking,” he chimes in from across the table, his trademark shit-eating grin spreading across his face.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Count to three. Remind myself that fratricide is frowned upon in civil society. “If you want a sober driver tonight, you’d better shut up. Both of you.”
Remy zips his lips over a mouthful of cookie, eyes still dancing with teasing.
Shaking my head, I cross the open space to where Rhys is sprawled on the rug and scoop him up. He squeals, his crayon flying from his hand, but he’s laughing as I settle him on my hip. He’s getting too big for this; growing too fast.
“Be good for Grandma, okay?” I press a kiss to his cheek, enjoying the softness of a seven-year-old’s skin against my stubble.
“I’m always good.” He kisses me back and wraps his skinny arms around my neck in a squeeze that threatens to choke. “Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too, kiddo.” I set him down and ruffle his hair. It springs back up in ten different directions. Evans hair. Impossible to tame.
“I need forty-five minutes to shower and get ready,” Rebecca announces, already heading for the door. “You’re picking me up?”
“Yeah.” I follow her out, calling goodbye to Mom over my shoulder and flipping the bird to Remy—he just smirks wider.
Each of us has our own place on the farm.
Me in the house I built eight years ago on the northeastern corner of Hollow Creek, far enough from the old farmhouse for privacy but close enough that Rhys can walk to Grandma’s when he wants.
Becky is in the renovated cottage by the flower fields.
And Remy, in the dismissed foreman’s quarters he fixed up near the cattle pastures.
We’re within reach when someone needs an extra hand, but without stepping on each other’s toes.
I hadn’t planned to shower or change. I was going to show up in my work clothes, have one beer, listen to the band, and drive everyone home. Simple.
But Faye will be there.
The thought sends me to my truck, then home straight into the bathroom, where I strip off dusty jeans and my musky Henley. The shower runs hot, steam filling the small space. I scrub hard, swearing it’s not about her. Just personal hygiene.
I shave for the first time since Sunday, studying my reflection in the foggy mirror.
Even without the stubble, the man staring back at me looks older than thirty-two, with lines around his eyes from squinting in the sun and a permanent furrow between his brows from worry and weather.
What the hell am I doing? She’s Rhys’s teacher. She thinks I’m an arrogant ass.
Still, I pull on a clean pair of jeans and a dark blue flannel that Rebecca swears “brings out my eyes” (whatever that means). I comb my hair back, taming it with a bit of gel from an old bottle I haven’t used in years, until it no longer seems like I’ve been electrocuted.
When I walk outside, Remy is already leaning against my truck. He takes one look at me and bursts out laughing.
“What?” I unlock the truck and hop in.
“Nothing.” He’s still smiling ear to ear as he climbs into the passenger seat. “Sweet how you’re totally not into the teacher.”
“I’m not.”
“Uh-huh.” He buckles his seatbelt, grinning at me from across the cab. “Then I’m honored the clean-shaved jaw and combed hair are for me.”
I throw the truck in reverse, gravel spinning under my tires. “One day, you’ll get stupid over a woman. And it’ll be my turn to laugh.”
“Never gonna happen.” Remy makes a twirling gesture with his finger. “That’s why I keep ’em circulating. Never stop too long on one.”
I shake my head and turn onto the dirt road that leads to Rebecca’s place.
She’s waiting on the porch when we pull up, and joins the merciless teasing the moment she gets into the truck.
“You cleaned up good.” She leans between the seats. “Did you get the memo we’re going to the Moonshine and not to meet Faye’s parents?”
“You’re both walkin’ home if you keep this up.” I shift into gear, and the truck lurches forward.
But curiosity gnaws at me. “Do you know anything about her? Faye, I mean. Where she’s from. Her family.”
Remy coughs into his fist. “Just to clarify—you’re asking because you’re so not into her.”
I reach over and clap him on the back of the head. Not hard, but enough to make my point.
“Ow! Assault!”
“Sue me.”
Becky’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and her smile turns wicked.
“She doesn’t talk about her past. Ever. Even at book club, she deflects personal questions like she’s in witness protection or something. We’ve known each other for eight months, and I still don’t know where she comes from or why she moved here. Faye is very beautiful and mysterious.”
“And great with a spanking paddle,” Remy adds.
Both he and Rebecca dissolve into laughter.
I’ve had enough. I crank the radio to maximum volume, drowning out their cackling.
The Moonshine’s parking lot is packed when we arrive.
The bar’s neon sign buzzes and flickers, casting yellow and blue light over the crammed trucks and motorcycles.
Music punches past the doors, the Whiskey Wheelers thumping out their signature Americana.
The familiar smell of fried food and spilled beer hits me as we walk in, along with the warmth and the press of too many bodies in a confined space.
The band is on the small stage at the back, the lead singer’s voice cutting through the noise with that raw, honest sound that makes me want to drive fast down a back road with the windows rolled down.
Half the space has turned into a dance floor, a churning mass of arms, boots, and hips, dancers moving together or apart, laughing and shouting over the music. Every table is full. And the bar is three-deep with people trying to order drinks.
I scan the crowd, getting my bearings. Not looking for that elaborate twist of blonde hair. Not searching for honey-colored eyes or tight skirts.
Rebecca peels off toward a pack of women clustered near the stage. I search their faces, but Faye isn’t with them.
She’s nowhere.
Not at the bar, not at the high-tops along the wall, not in the cluster of people pressed against the stage. Of course she’s not. She probably changed her mind and went to a gastropub in a bigger town, somewhere with wine tastings, cloth napkins, and jazz music.
Disappointment settles in my gut, which is ridiculous. I should be relieved. This is better. Easier. Now I can enjoy the band without worrying about having my ass handed to me again.
“Beer?” Remy shouts over the music.
I nod, following him to the bar. We shoulder past a loud group until we earn a space against the counter’s scarred wood. The bartender—Dale, who graduated a year ahead of me—nods in recognition and starts pouring before we even order. Two ice-cold Buds from the tap that he slides over to us.
I take mine and follow Remy to a high table on the side that has become available. I lean back against it, elbows propped on the edge, and let my gaze drift over the mass of people again.
“You good?” Remy asks, his attention already drifting to a brunette in cutoff shorts near the pool table.
“Fine.”
“You’re staring at the crowd with sniper-level focus.”
“Just looking around.”
“Sure.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go introduce myself to those ladies. Try not to pine too obviously.”
I shove him off, eyes still fixed on the surging crowd on the dance floor.
And that’s when it happens—almost in slow-motion—the dancers shift and separate, creating a clear line of sight across the floor from me… to her.
That first glance of Faye I get is a kick straight to the groin, because this woman—this fucking vision—looks nothing like the Miss Rose I’ve met, the buttoned-up teacher with the severe bun and pencil skirt.
Her hair is loose. Falling past her shoulders in wheat-gold glossy waves that reach her navel. She looks like a mermaid who walked out of the lake to wreck me.
Her clothes are casual: high-waisted fitted jeans and a plain white T-shirt tucked into the waistband. Ankle boots. Nothing fancy. But on her, the result brings the kind of trouble you don’t recognize until it’s too late to back out clean.
She has her arms up, hands in the air, hips moving to the beat. Her hair is swaying, and she’s laughing at something Lila Callaway said, her head thrown back, the column of her throat exposed.
I straighten up without meaning to.
“What’s gotten into you?” Remy’s back to my side. “You look like a bull ready to charge.”
I don’t answer. I can’t, as Faye chooses that exact moment to spin, her hair flying out behind her. Her face shines with joy. With freedom. Like she’s someone else—someone unguarded and real and so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at her.
“Damn.” Remy must follow my stare. “Who’s the blonde?”
“Nobody for you,” I growl. Territorial. Possessive. Which is insane because I have zero claim on Faye Rose.
But the idea of Remy—of anyone—looking at her the way I am now makes something ugly twist in my chest.
My brother does a double-take, his gaze pinballing between me and Faye. “Wait. Is that—holy shit, that’s the teacher?”
I don’t answer. My eyes are locked on Faye, on the way she moves, on the curve of her waist where her T-shirt is tucked in. On the length of her hair that I suddenly itch to wrap around my fist. On her smile—so different from the tight, professional one she gave me in the classroom.
“You old bastard,” Remy breathes. “No wonder you enjoyed getting spanked.”
I don’t reply. If he says something else, I don’t hear it. Don’t hear anything except the blood rushing in my ears as Faye lifts her gaze and sees me.
Our eyes meet across the bar—past the mist of too many people breathing the same air.
Space shirks down in a suspended intake of breath as the room goes from slow motion to a full stop. Like the universe hit pause and left the two of us locked in place.
Faye doesn’t look away. Doesn’t immediately ice over like she did at school. For a few precious seconds, she stares at me with something that looks a hell of a lot like fire.
Burning, molten, honeyed heat.
The colored lights from the stage play across her face—red, then blue, then gold—and in each shade, she brings me to my knees a little further.
She spins away without even a nod in my direction, turning back to Lila, still dancing. But something in her demeanor shifts. Tension creeps into her shoulders, and she doesn’t turn again.
“Oh, you’re fucked,” Remy says beside me, chuckling, as he pats my shoulder. “Completely, absolutely fucked.”
He’s right.
Because the look she gave me, before she remembered she’s supposed to hate me, it’s all it takes.
She has flames blazing under her frosty crust. All I have to do is melt the ice cap and reach the burning core. And heaven forgive me, I want to. I want to be there when she lets that fire loose.
Oh, I’m the one about to get very, very stupid over a woman.