Chapter 17 #2
“Better than I expected.” His expression eases, the defensive walls I’ve seen before nowhere in sight. “We talked through things I didn’t know how to bring up. She helped Rhys express his feelings. And she made me see that being honest with him is better than protecting him from the truth.”
Pride, joy, and relief swell in my chest. “I’m glad. That’s wonderful.”
“Yeah.” He nods, looking out over the rows of tulips. “We’re going back next week. It’s… it’s good. For both of us.”
I want to hug him. To tell him how brave he is for doing this, for facing his painful past. But we’re standing on his family’s farm with people still around, and he’s the father of a student, so I settle for verbal comfort.
“You’re doing an amazing job. Hollow Creek is incredible…” I gesture at the fields, the barn, the operation that stretches as far as the eye can see. “The way you manage all of this, being a wonderful father on top of it… Rhys is lucky to have you.”
Ryder doesn’t respond immediately. He stares at me, those violet eyes smoldering, and goes for a silent nod.
I laugh, exasperated. “You’re not great at taking either constructive criticism or compliments.”
He smirks now, a confident, lopsided grin that has my stomach clenching so hard I’m getting a free abs workout. “Good thing I’m great at dancing, then.”
The phantoms of his hands are back on me, holding my hips, tugging me closer, even if we’re walking three feet apart.
Ryder’s gaze drops to my flaming cheeks, and he seems deeply satisfied by the color blooming there.
We walk a few more steps in silence, then Ryder crouches next to one of the last rows of tulips that have not been harvested, their petals deep velvety purples and reds.
“Have you done this before?” He looks up at me, squinting against the sun.
Picked flowers from a field?
“No,” I say aloud.
I haven’t even been to a flower shop in forever. My last flower order was when I was still living in California, and I selected the bouquet by clicking on a website.
“Crash course.” He grins. “You pull the whole stem out of the earth. They last longer that way.”
I crouch beside him, our knees almost touching.
“See?” He grasps a stem low, just above the soil. “Get as much of it as possible. Grab it below the lowest leaf.”
He has dirt under the nails, calluses on his palms, and I’d still want those hands on me. Clean doesn’t matter. The part of me that cared about mud is long gone; I’d let him take me here in it. I’m so feral with want, I’m not sure it wouldn’t be me taking him.
I watch as he demonstrates, his fingers wrapping around the green stem.
“Then you pull straight up.” He tugs, and the tulip comes free, bulb and all. “Gentle but firm.”
Is that how he has sex? Firm but gentle, or hard and fast, or slow and dirty? Oh my gosh, brain, please shut up. Even if I’m not sure I’m thinking with my brain right now.
“The key,” Ryder continues, brushing soil from the roots, “is confidence. If you’re tentative, the stem breaks. You have to commit.”
He’s teaching me basic botany, but he might as well be coaching me through an orgasm, telling me when to breathe, how to move, when to come—screaming whose name.
My skin prickles with heat.
Ryder looks at me. “Are you hot?”
And bothered, yes!
I choke out. “What?”
“Your face is red.” His expression is innocent, but the twinkle in his eyes is wicked. “You okay?”
“It’s the sun. Fair skin is a terrible nuisance.”
His mouth curls up in a smile, but he doesn’t call me out.
“You want to try?”
I select a red tulip, wrapping my hand around the stem the way he showed me. The texture is smooth, cool, and slightly waxy.
“Lower,” Ryder coaxes. “Get more of the stem.”
I adjust my grip.
“That’s it.” He hums, encouraging. “Now pull. Steady and firm.”
I pull until the tulip slips free, a perfect bloom balanced on its stem and bulb.
“Good job.” He’s smiling at me. “You’re a natural.”
After the first one, I pick tulips in all colors. Ryder offers suggestions but lets me choose, following as I move through the rows, selecting favorites.
The activity is meditative. It’s peaceful with just the two of us and the flowers and the late afternoon sun.
But underneath the surface, the awareness thrums. By the time we’re done, my basket is full of tulips, and my heart is past its cardio quota for the day.
We walk back to the barn, where Ryder spreads the flowers on a workbench and wraps them. His fingers move unhurriedly, turning the tulips in his hands, adjusting the order until the mix looks right to him.
“You, instead, have done this before,” I observe.
“Rebecca taught me.” He ties off the twine with a quick knot. “She handles the flower operation, but we all pitch in during festivals.”
He holds out the bouquet to me.
I reach for my purse. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” He presses the flowers into my hands. “It’s on the house. A thank you for everything you’ve done for me and my son.”
It’s a simple offer of gratitude. But the gesture, coming from him, with his mouth caught between a smile and a breath held too long, while he looks at me with those smoldering eyes, feels romantic.
“Ryder, I can’t—”
“You can.” His voice is firm. “Please.”
I take the bouquet and tell myself it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just thank-you flowers.
But my heart doesn’t get the memo.
“Thank you,” I say softly, holding the tulips to my chest.
We step out of the barn. The farm is almost empty now, most of the visitors having gone home.
Ryder glances toward the open yard where his family is breaking down booths and collecting trash. “I have to go help with the cleanup.”
“Of course.” I clutch the bouquet tighter. “Thank you again. For the flowers. And the hayride.”
“See you next Thursday?” he asks.
Right. The field trip is in less than a week. “Mmm-hmm. Did you do your deep-breathing exercises?”
“Will get on it. Any other last-minute advice?” Ryder asks, his expression turning playful. “About chaperoning?”
“Don’t let them smell fear,” I joke.
I silently add: Don’t let me smell you, or I’m the one you’ll have to beware of.
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine.
Ryder tips his head, that backward baseball cap at odds with the gesture but even more charming for it. “See you Thursday, Miss Rose.”
This time, Miss Rose sounds like foreplay. A dark promise wrapped in pretend politeness.
He turns and goes. I stay. I inhale the perfume of the tulips, letting it ground me as I track his retreating form across the yard.
Some women collect flowers. I collect poor decisions with broad shoulders and a fine ass currently walking away in perfect-fit Wranglers.