Chapter 19
FAYE
Everything is fine.
The children are having fun. The sun is shining through the trees.
And Ryder Evans didn’t almost just kiss me.
Nuh-uh. Yeah, he cupped my face and stared longingly into my eyes—okay, eye, singular, since the other was out of commission.
But nothing happened. And I’m not obsessing over it.
I haven’t been thinking about it nonstop.
Not at all. Not even a little bit. That my heart still hasn’t returned to its normal rhythm has nothing to do with the gentle pressure of his palm against my jaw or the way his thumb brushed my cheekbone or how his scent—cedar and summer—wrapped around me until I forgot how to breathe. Nope. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
The last stretch of the hike passes in a blur of chatter and birdsong.
We emerge from the trailhead back at the parking lot, where we gather our overnight bags.
I make sure everyone is accounted for, then lead them down a narrow asphalt road that winds through the trees to settle in our overnight lodgings.
The cabins have dark-brown siding and shallow porches with railings that run straight to the curb, each with the same squat metal grill out front.
We booked two duplex cabins, each sleeping twelve split between two connected six-person units.
I pull out my clipboard with the sleeping arrangements I completed last week.
As I rattle off names, the kids drag their bags toward their assigned lodging while Ryder helps wrangle the overflow of backpacks.
When the last group is set up in Cabin 19–20, I’m left with two names on my list. Mine. And his.
“You’re in Cabin 18,” I tell Ryder, pointing to the structure on the far right. “I’m in nineteen.”
“I’ll go drop my stuff.” He waves playfully. “Howdy, neighbor.”
It’s great that we are in separate cabins. No sleepovers. We’ll be fifty feet apart tonight. Separated by walls and rules.
Better this way. Even if he weren’t a student’s parent, I don’t know if I’m ready to trust a man again.
Ryder tempts me into believing I could. Except I can’t tell if this bubbling want in my chest is real or just my body screaming to be touched after months of being starved of any contact.
I’m not even sure which terrifies me more.
At least lust burns out fast. Feelings leave scars.
I drop my stuff inside, claiming a single bed, but then leave the kids alone to organize themselves. Ryder must’ve done the same because he’s jogging down the steps of his cabin, hands shoved in his pockets, when I come out. When he sees me, he grins. “You already unpacked?”
“I dropped my bag and let them pick their beds. You?”
“My ears needed a break.”
I laugh. “You learn to tune it out after a while.”
His grin widens, and he squints his eyes against the sunlight. Right, because I’m still wearing his hat.
“Oh.” I reach up, pulling it off. “Sorry. Here.”
“Keep it,” he says. “The sun is not down yet.”
“No, it’s yours. My eye is fine now, I promise.”
He takes the cap from me—expression saying he knows I’m full of crap—and puts it on backward.
I want to scream. Can’t he tone the sex-on-legs vibe down? Dial back the fucking country charm?
He walks closer, casual except for the intensity in that shadowed gaze.
“How’s the eye, really?” he asks.
“I’ll survive.”
The bug, yeah, but the prolonged eye contact might end me.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Good.”
A beat of silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable. But not peaceful either. It pulses.
A shriek erupts from the cabin behind me. Then laughter. Then more shrieking.
I sigh. “Time for dinner.”
“I’ll rally my cabin.”
He winks.
Damn him.
The meal is uneventful. We herd the kids into the lodge restaurant—a large, rustic space with exposed beams crossing the ceiling and strings of greenery draped between them. Rows of matching tables and chairs fill the room, every place already set with mugs and napkins.
Ryder and I sit at opposite ends of the table, same as we did in walking formation. We don’t talk, interact, or even make eye contact for the entire dinner.
But I’m aware of him. The low timbre of his voice when he speaks, the firmer tone he uses when the kids get rowdy. The quick laugh that has my grip on the fork tighten with every chuckle. If my stomach keeps flipping like this, I’m going to lose dinner. Even when he’s quiet, he takes up space.
By the time we finish, the sun is lowering behind the hills, painting the sky in shades of purple and pink. Perfect campfire weather.
Ryder goes to get the fire started while I make sure everyone who needs a bathroom break takes one. When we arrive at the pit, smoke is curling into the dusk. Ryder has a healthy blaze going, logs stacked in a neat teepee, flames licking at the darkening sky.
We settle on the makeshift log benches arranged in a circle around the fire, the kids’ faces glowing in the firelight, and I pull out the explorers story I brought.
I open the book to the first page and read, using different voices for each character. The kids lean in, captivated. Even the ones who were bouncing five minutes ago are still now, eyes wide.
By the time I finish reading, the kids are drowsy, leaning against each other, eyes drooping despite their best efforts to stay awake.
“Okay, class, it’s been a long day.” I close the book. “Time for bed.”
Groans of protest rise, but they’re half-hearted. The kids are spent.
Ryder and I move through the cabins, making sure they brush their teeth, get into pajamas, and climb into their beds.
It takes forever—one can’t find their toothbrush, another insists they’re not tired, and Rhys stages a valiant last stand by asking a thousand questions ranging from whether bears can swim to why, if dinosaurs had feathers, birds don’t have scales.
I tell him we’ll look up the answers tomorrow.
When all my eleven kids are in bed, I leave them time to fall asleep on their own. Ryder is already out of his cabin as if waiting for me by unspoken agreement.
The night has settled in now. Stars prick the sky in dense clusters, brighter than in civilization.
We’re alone.
“We should give them a while before we turn in,” I say. “Half an hour, forty-five minutes.”
“Sounds good.”
I lean against the porch railing, gripping the rough wood, letting the splinters bite into my palms to forget I’m alone in the woods under a blanket of stars with the man who makes my pulse race every time he’s within ten feet of me.
Ryder joins me, leaning on the railing an arm’s length away. Close enough that his heat reaches me. Far enough that we’re not touching.
“So,” he asks oh-so-casually. “What’s the verdict on Missouri’s nature? Has it swayed you?”
I glance at him to read his meaning. “Swayed me to what?”
“To stay.”
The question drops like a glass vase. A single point of impact and then shards that spread out in every direction.
Why is he asking?
I study his face, half-shadowed in the glow of the porch lights. His jaw is tight. His eyes are searching mine, looking for answers I’m not sure I can give.
The truth is that if something had to sway me into staying, the nature of Missouri, stunning as it might be, has nothing on him.
But I can’t say that.
“It’s gorgeous,” I offer instead.
He smirks. “Giving nothing away as usual, Miss Rose.”
My name again, wrapped in formality that feels like the opposite of distance.
“Why do you want to know?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to his feet. When he looks back up at me, the smirk is gone. Replaced by direct and unflinching focus.
“I could give you a lot of fake reasons.” The gentleness of his tone doesn’t match the power of his words. “Tell you I want to know if I need to look for another tenant. Or that I’m concerned about teaching standards at Harbor Point, and I’m asking for the kids. Or that I’m asking for my sister.”
My pulse picks up, thudding loud in my ears. “And what’s the real reason?”
He pushes off the railing, turning to face me and planting himself in front of me. “I’m asking for myself.”
Oh.
Joy and fear explode in my chest, twin detonations that leave me breathless. Joy because he admitted that he cares. That this isn’t one-sided.
Fear because where do we go from here?
He takes a step forward.
I bring my hands up, planting them on his chest to stop him. His heart pounds beneath my palms, strong and steady. “We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You’re the father of one of my students.”
He smiles in response to my refusal.
I blink, confused by the reaction. “What are you smiling about?”
Instead of answering, he grabs my left hand. His fingers wrap around mine, warm and sure, and he takes that step forward. The one I was trying to prevent.
We’re almost chest to chest now.
The closeness allows him to reach behind my back with his free hand. He grabs my ponytail and pulls, only once.
The tug travels down my spine like lightning. Sets everything on fire.
“I’m smiling because you didn’t say you don’t want to,” he murmurs.
He’s right. I didn’t. It wouldn’t be true.
He brings my hand up to his mouth, and his lips brush over my knuckles, soft and rough at the same time. The scrape of his stubble against my skin shoots a cascade of tingles up my arm.
“And first grade is over in two weeks, Miss Rose,” he says against my hand.
Then he releases me. Steps back. Puts a normal, appropriate, maddening amount of space between us.
“It’s been quiet,” he says, in a conversational tone. “The kids must be sleeping.”
I wish I could speak or think. But my entire system is in overdrive: body hot, pulse out of control, thighs clenching together in a futile attempt to ease the ache building between them.
“Right,” I manage.
He tips his head. “I guess this means goodnight, Miss Rose.”
Ryder turns and walks toward Cabin 18 with measured, casual steps as if he didn’t just scramble every brain cell I have.
He stops on the threshold, hand on the doorframe. Then he looks back at me, lifting two fingers.
“Two weeks,” he mouths.
And then he’s gone. The door closes behind him, and I’m alone in the dark with my racing heart and the echo of his promise still caught in my chest.
I blow out a raspberry and fan myself.
Everything is fine.
Super-duper.