Chapter 8
RYDER
The syrup pools in the grooves of Rhys’s pirate ship pancake, chocolate chip cannons dissolving into the sweet sludge.
My son is perched on a stool across from me, dressed in his weekend uniform of a faded Bobcats sweatshirt and pants.
He cranes his neck to spy what today’s creation will be.
All-shape pancakes are our Sunday morning tradition.
This week, it’s pirates. Last week was rocket ships.
Next week, who knows; it depends on what online tutorial I find.
I present the ship.
“That’s perfect, Dad!” Rhys bounces on his stool, diving in. “Can you make me a treasure chest?”
“Sure, buddy.”
“And can we get a parrot?” Rhys asks between chews.
“Tractor would eat it.” I work on the treasure chest—basically a rectangle with more chocolate chips.
“A lizard?”
“Same problem, I’m afraid.”
“Aaah,” he groans in protest and grabs another bite. “Miss Rose would love these,” he announces through a mouthful of pancake. “She likes pirates. We read a book about them last week, and she did the voices. She made the captain sound mean and scary, and the hero brave.”
Of course she does character voices when she reads to her students. And of course, the one second in two days I’m not thinking about Faye Rose, Rhys brings her up.
My thoughts have been stuck on her since Friday night. Since I left the Moonshine and drove home with Remy and Rebecca’s relentless teasing ringing in my ears. I’ve tried to drown out the memories of watching her dance—wild and free —and the sharper ones of having her in my arms.
Nothing worked. Not the hours I spent staring at the ceiling while my brain refused to go to sleep. Especially not the predawn wake-up calls my body has gifted me these past two mornings. A reminder of how long it’s been since I’ve touched a woman.
I tip the treasure chest on Rhys’s plate, then slide my pancake—a boring circle—onto mine.
“She sounds like quite the performer.” I pour myself a coffee.
Rhys nods, cheeks puffed with food. “Everyone listens when she tells stories. She makes it fun.”
I hide a smile behind my mug. “Bet she does.”
“Are you going to date her?”
I choke on the first sip. Coffee burns down my throat and into my lungs. I cough, eyes watering, while Rhys watches with innocent curiosity.
“What? No, why would you— No.”
“Why not? You danced with her on Friday night.”
“How do you know that?”
“Aunt Becky sent Grandma a video.” He grins, proud of this intelligence. “She showed me. You were fantastic.”
Textbook Rebecca to film it and send it to Mom. My family knows no boundaries.
“Dancing with someone doesn’t mean you date them, bud.”
“But you could. She’s not married. I asked.”
“You asked Miss Rose if she’s married?”
“Yeah. She said no.” He drags a piece of pancake through the syrup lake on his plate. “So you could marry her. Then she could live with us, and I’d get to see her all the time, not just at school.”
Pressure builds behind my sternum. Rhys has never brought up the absence of his mom or the possibility of me dating someone. He’s never seemed to care or notice. And now he’s plotting to matchmake me?
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Why?”
Because she’s your teacher. Because I can’t stop thinking about her, and that terrifies me. The last time I let myself want someone, she left me holding a baby and a note that said she wasn’t cut out for this life.
“It just is.”
Rhys considers this, chewing. “Aunt Becky says you need to get, mmm…” He scrunches his nose. “I forgot the word. But it was a bad one, so I can’t say it, anyway.”
“Good call.”
I sit across from my kid with my coffee going cold, more destabilized than when Abigail left. Sunday mornings are my favorite part of the week, when it’s just the two of us. No rushing to get him to school or me to the fields.
Except today, there’s a third person with us.
And Rhys seems as obsessed with her as I am.
My mind keeps circling back to the shock of having Faye pressed against me when I yanked her out of that fight.
To the way her hands dropped to my chest—small and warm and gone too fast. To the dance and how I walked away right after to prove I still had some self-control left.
Turns out, I don’t.
We finish eating, and I rinse the plates, watching soap bubbles swirl down the drain. I dry my hands on a dishtowel, checking the hour. “Come on, time to head to Grandma’s. Go brush your teeth.”
Today I have to change the AC filters at the cottages.
Normally, I’d do it during the week, but since we have a long-term tenant, I scheduled the appointment ages ago for them to be around.
It would’ve felt weird to be in someone’s home without them present.
Only at the time, I didn’t realize Faye was staying in cottage four.
And how could I? I didn’t know her a week ago.
Rhys mutters a few protests, but shuffles to the bathroom and comes back once he’s ready. I help him gather his favorite toys in a small backpack, different from his school one.
Five minutes later, we’re in the truck, windows down, morning air still cool enough to be pleasant. Rhys chatters about his plans for the day: helping Grandma with her garden and convincing Uncle Remy to let him ride one of the gentler horses.
He asks me when I’ll be back. I tell him in time for lunch, and that if he doesn’t convince Remy, I’ll give him a riding lesson in the afternoon.
This earns me back daddy points after refusing the parrot and the lizard.
I drop him off with my mom and drive off quickly to avoid being interrogated about that video.
The cottages are a ten-minute detour off the main road, nestled along the lakeshore where the land flattens and opens up to the water.
We renovated them last spring—new roofs, updated kitchens and bathrooms, full interior and exterior overhauls, and decks added to every unit.
They’re small but functional, each house with two bedrooms and two baths. Close to town but with enough privacy the renters can pretend they’ve escaped civilization.
Three cottages are empty this weekend, normal since it’s still low season. Two are rented to weekenders from St. Louis. I’ll come back on Monday for those.
And then there’s cottage four.
Faye’s cottage.
I save it for last, like a kid saving the best Halloween candy. It’s silly.
I sit in the truck outside her place for a full minute, staring at the front door as if it might offer answers. My toolbox sits on the seat beside me. Why am I so nervous? The appointment was scheduled weeks ago through Rebecca. This isn’t some excuse I made up to see her. It’s just work.
Except my palms are sweating. My heart is beating too fast. And I feel like a teenager about to ask a girl to prom, not a thirty-two-year-old man doing routine maintenance.
I grab the toolbox and force myself out of the truck. The walk to the cottage is too short. I press the electronic doorbell, its chime too loud in my ears.
Footsteps sound inside. The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and… Fuck.
If I thought Faye was hot two nights ago, it’s nothing compared to her now.
She’s in an oversized fuzzy sweater so feathery I want to bury my face in it and leggings that hug every curve and lean muscle.
Her hair is down again. Her feet are bare, toenails painted a dark plum.
And she doesn’t have any makeup on, with faint circles under her eyes and a sleep-crease on her cheek, but she still ruins my ability to think straight. I swallow.
She looks so soft. So huggable.
Her eyes go wide when she sees me, lips parting in surprise.
“H-hello.” The greeting comes out stammered, breathless.
I feel that stumble in my gut. A kick of satisfaction that I’m not the only one off-balance here.
“Morning.” I keep my voice cheerful and lift the toolbox. “Maintenance. Becky made the appointment a while ago.”
Understanding dawns over her face. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” She chuckles, uneasy, a little self-deprecating. “I’ve always dealt with her for the lease.”
“She sorts the rents, but I do the maintenance.”
“Makes sense. I just… mmm… hadn’t realized it’d be you coming… I haven’t needed anything done since I moved in.” She’s fidgeting with the edge of her sweater, nervous energy radiating off her.
I hope she’s jittery around me for the same reasons I’m edgy when I’m with her. Because I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind since the day we met.
“I hope not.” I clear my throat. “We renovated all six cottages last year. I’m crossing my fingers we’ve got a few more years before any serious maintenance is needed.” Look how great I am at small talk.
Faye steps back, holding the door open wider. “Well, come on in.”
I cross the threshold, hyperaware of how close we are in the narrow entryway.
“What was it you had to do again?” Her gaze skips around, never landing on me.
“AC filters cleanup.”
“Ah, right. Well, go ahead. You want a coffee or something?”
“That’d be nice. I’ll start in the living room. Won’t take long.”
She disappears into the kitchen while I study what she’s done with the space.
I’m familiar with the layout; I helped design it, chose the furniture, and painted these walls myself.
But seeing her things mixed in with what I built feels intimate.
Books overflow from the custom shelves, spines cracked from reading.
A fuzzy pink blanket is draped over the couch.
The coffee table is buried under a stack of lesson plans.
And plugged into the TV—a massive flat-screen you’d expect in a sports bar—are a VR headset and a Nintendo Switch.
The second built-in shelf is loaded with dozens of video game cases.
As many as the books. Okay, that’s unexpected.
I start to work, taking the AC grate off the split and the filter out. Faye is still moving around in the kitchen. The familiar gurgle of brewing drifts over after a bit.