Chapter 11
FAYE
The arrival of Ryder Evans creates a stir among the moms.
The reaction ripples through the circle of women.
Several gasp. Many say hello while smoothing down their hair or tucking strands behind their ears.
They sit up straighter, spines lengthening, chests pushing forward like synchronized swimmers responding to an invisible cue.
Even Melissa Roberts, who I’ve never seen show interest in anything besides her twins’ academic progress, sucks in her stomach.
I have to lock my hands on the notebook I’m holding not to do the same.
Not to check whether my hair is still neat in its low twist. Not to adjust my sweater or wet my lips or do any of the other dozen unconscious things my body wants to do in response to Ryder Evans darkening my door—literally, since there’s so much of him he blocks all the light.
I’m just as unprepared as I was a week ago for the sight of him in those darn jeans and Henley—sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the forearms that have haunted my dreams.
Ryder’s gaze sweeps the room, landing on each woman in polite acknowledgment, before his eyes find mine, and the air disappears from my lungs.
It’s the same look he gave me across the crowded bar at the Moonshine.
The same intensity that pinned me to the dance floor and made me forget every reason why dancing with him was a terrible idea.
His eyes are the color of twilight, that impossible shade that shouldn’t exist outside of Photoshop. And right now, they’re focused on me.
Something passes between us. A current, live and dangerous.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
“Sorry I’m late.” His whiskey and woodsmoke voice fills my classroom as he steps in, holding a Tupperware in his hands. Did he bring snacks?
“Oh, don’t be silly, Ryder.” Bettany Harlow recovers first. She’s positioned herself in the chair closest to me, the alpha mom claiming a prime spot. “We were just getting started. Weren’t we, ladies?”
A chorus of agreement rises from the other moms, voices overlapping in their eagerness to assure him his lateness doesn’t matter. Not when he looks like that.
Bettany smooths her already-perfect blonde bob and waves her hand toward Ryder like she’s the queen welcoming a visiting dignitary. “As room parent, I’m thrilled to give our first dad an official welcome.”
I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
I should feel guilty about my internal snark. Bettany is efficient, organized, and cares about making school events special for the kids. She’s the kind of parent volunteer every teacher dreams of having.
She also mentions being the class representative the way some people work their Ivy League alma mater into every conversation.
How many times will she bring up her title tonight?
Should I make a drinking game out of it?
Take a shot later for each time she says it?
Getting drunk could be useful to forget how Ryder Evans looks in that Henley.
At this rate, I’ll be unconscious by nine.
“Happy to help.” He moves deeper into the room, and a shade of doubt crosses his face as he takes in the seating arrangements.
We’re sitting in a circle of adult chairs I brought in for the meeting—for the parents who RSVP’d in time instead of going for a dramatic late entrance. But I only took six. No spare for the unexpected dad who decided to ruin my seating plan with his unreasonably sculpted ass.
The only other seating options are the kid-sized chairs. But no way Ryder Evans is folding his six-foot-plus frame into one of those. The mental image alone, him with his knees up around his ears, legs cramped, is ridiculous.
“Take my chair,” I say, starting to stand.
His hand comes up, waving me down. “A desk will be fine.”
He leans back against one of the front-row desks, long legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. The geometry of our circle breaks. The moms scramble, chairs scraping on the floor as they angle themselves to include him.
“I brought cookies.” He rattles the Tupperware container.
Of course he did.
He probably baked them himself, shirtless, flour dusting his abs, while he shimmied around the kitchen to the beat of country music, hips swaying sexily.
And I should stop imagining Ryder Evans doing domestic tasks bare-chested.
“How thoughtful!” Bettany practically squeals.
“Chocolate chip.” He pops the lid, forearms flexing, and hands the container to the nearest mom.
I yank my gaze away from him and force my brain to shut down the memory of how those arms felt around me on the dance floor.
When the plastic container reaches me, I grab a cookie. I need the comfort sugar.
I take a bite. And nearly have a religious experience.
The cookie is crispy and chewy at the same time. The chocolate melts on my tongue, and a hint of sea salt makes the sweetness pop. It’s transcendent. It’s life-changing. It’s better than an orgasm.
I make a conscious effort not to moan.
“These are incredible,” Bettany says, and for once, I agree with her. “Did you bake them yourself? I’ll need the recipe.”
Ryder scratches the back of his head, grinning sheepishly. “I stole them from my mom’s kitchen. But I will pass on that they were appreciated and make sure she sends you the recipe, Betty.”
“Aww, thank you. Give Mae our compliments,” Bettany coos. “And tell her hello from us.”
“Will do.” Ryder nods as the other moms chorus their own hellos to pass along while I grind my teeth.
Somehow, the admission that he stole the cookies from his mother makes everything worse.
If he’d baked them, it would’ve been too perfect.
But picturing Ryder Evans swinging by his mother’s house and raiding her cookie jar is too much.
It’s too sweet; it’s a mental image that has my silly heart squeezing.
When everyone is done eating, I clear my throat, determined to herd the meeting back on track and my pulse under control. “Should we get back to the agenda?”
“Of course.” Bettany brushes crumbs from her fingers. “As room parent”—shot number two—“I’ve been asked to gather input about a controversial topic.”
She sounds like we’re about to discuss ritual sacrifices or tax fraud, not deal with an elementary school event.
“Apparently,” she continues, her tone tart, “a petition has been circulating to cancel Mother’s Day.”
The room goes quiet.
“Some people”—she glances at me—“believe that celebrating mothers has become offensive. That we need to be more inclusive.” She wrinkles her nose as if the concept stinks.
“As room parent, I’ll be giving my recommendation to the school board on behalf of the class, and I think my position on this is obvious. ”
That makes it three shots, and I’m going to need all three.
The other moms shift in their seats, some nodding, others looking uncomfortable, while I see my proposal, the one I spent hours researching and writing to make school events more inclusive for kids like Rhys, getting dismissed because Bettany Harlow has decided it’s an affront to motherhood.
I open my mouth to defend the proposition, to explain the reasoning, to—
“Thank you, Betty,” Ryder says.
His voice cuts through the tension, calm and measured. All eyes turn to him.
Bettany blinks, clearly thrown. “Oh. You’re… welcome?”
“It matters to me and Rhys that other parents are supporting this change.” He uncrosses his arms, straightening from his lean against the desk. “Not just for us, but for all the kids who might feel left out or singled out by the traditional approach.”
Bettany’s mouth opens, then closes. Her face is shifting through several shades of pink, heading toward red. But she doesn’t dare object.
“I’d hate it for my kid to be made to feel different.
” Ryder is looking at me now, his eyes steady and serious as he repeats my words from our first encounter back at me.
“For Rhys to sit in class watching other kids make cards for mothers who show up, while he’s reminded of the parent who abandoned him. ”
The room is so quiet, I hear my heartbeat. It’s doing something complicated in my chest, a rhythm that has nothing to do with cardiovascular health and everything to do with the vulnerability in Ryder’s voice.
“Having the backing of the room parent”—oh, he’s good, throwing her title back at her—“is what makes this community special: knowing that you’ll recommend to the board that we make these events about all families, not just the traditional ones.” Ryder stares Bettany down.
“Of course,” she manages, her voice strangled. “We support all families. I—I’ll share that thought with the board.”
The other moms nod, murmuring agreement.
Ryder’s gaze finds mine across the circle.
And he winks.
I feel that wink everywhere. In my scalp. In my toes. On the overheated skin of my chest. Between my legs.
A wink shouldn’t have this much power.
But when it comes from Ryder Evans, it’s a promise and a tease and an acknowledgment all wrapped up in one tiny movement.
It says: I’ve got your back.
It says: We’re in this together.
It says: I’m thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about in a room full of people, and from the look on your face, so are you.
Translation: Game over. I’m toast. The final heart on my health bar just disappeared. He’s the big monster at the end of a hard level, and he got me.
I force my attention back to my notes, trying to ignore the tingling sensation still spreading through my body. “Thank you for your support on this,” I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds.
Bettany recovers with visible effort, straightening in her chair and smoothing her bob again.
“Moving on,” she says, reclaiming control of the meeting I should be leading.
“The next item on the agenda is the overnight field trip to Roaring River State Park. It’s scheduled for the first week of May, and we’re still missing a parent chaperone volunteer.
“As room parent”—four shots—“I’d be the obvious choice and I would have volunteered, but unfortunately, my eldest daughter has her dance competition finals the following weekend.
” Bettany sighs dramatically. “It’s going to be a stressful time for our family, and Britney needs me to show my support. ”
I wonder if her helicopter parenting is what’s making it nerve-racking for her daughter in the first place.
“So, regrettably,” Bettany concludes, looking around expectantly, “someone else will need to volunteer for—”
She hasn’t even finished the sentence when Ryder speaks up. “I’ll go.”
My head snaps up so fast I might have given myself whiplash.
I gape at him, my mouth falling open in a way that’s not attractive or professional.
No. Not happening.
Having Ryder Evans as my co-chaperone is the last thing I need.
I’m barely surviving these brief encounters.
How am I supposed to handle an overnight field trip?
Two days and one night, sleeping in adjacent cabins.
Supervising kids around a campfire. I’m going to die.
Actually perish—with no “Press Start to Continue” option like in video games.
They’ll find my body in the woods, cause of death: prolonged exposure to an attractive single dad in his natural habitat.
But Bettany is ecstatic. She vibrates with excitement. “Oh, that’s wonderful! It’ll be so much better to know a man will be on the trip.”
I let the casual cheer to patriarchy slide. I have bigger problems right now.
Like the fact that Ryder is staring at me with a challenge written in his eyes. As if he’s aware of how much his presence will affect me, and he’s doing it anyway, daring me to object.
I let myself look at him fully for the first time since he walked into my classroom. Our eyes lock and hold.
“Are you sure you can handle twenty-two seven-year-olds?” I keep my voice light, professional. But underneath, I’m genuinely asking. This isn’t a joke. This is a serious responsibility, and I need to know he’s up for it.
“They can’t be worse than cows. And I’ve handled plenty of those.” Ryder chuckles, and the low rumble slides under my skin. “And if they misbehave, I’ll lasso them back in line.”
The moms laugh. Delighted, charmed by this impossible man who just compared their children to livestock and made it sound adorable.
I’m not laughing. I can’t when my brain is caught up imagining Ryder Evans on horseback, wearing chaps and a weathered cowboy hat tipped low over his eyes as he swings a rope over his head in expert circles before he releases it with perfect aim.
The mental image sears itself into my brain with the permanence of a brand.
I’m entering my cowboy era. Full-on, no-going-back, ride-off-into-the-sunset frontier. And there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it.
Yee-fucking-haw.