Chapter 25
RYDER
I drive toward Faye’s cottage with both hands on the wheel and a knot of guilt sitting heavy in my chest. I tell myself it’s okay to take the night off.
I spent the entire weekend with Rhys. Saturday at the farm, Sunday morning with pancakes and cartoons, and the afternoon throwing a football in the yard until his arm got tired.
And his bedtime is soon, anyway. Mom’s got him. He’ll be fine.
But still… Am I a terrible father for ditching story time to take a woman out to dinner? Why does it have to feel as if I’m choosing Faye over my son, even if it’s just for a few hours?
Will the remorse ever go away?
The overcast sky matches my mood. Gray and hazy with heavy, humid air that clings to everything.
Wind from the lake picks up as I turn onto the winding road to the cottages, rattling the windows and swaying the tree branches.
Thunder rolls in the distance, a low growl that promises rain.
I hope Faye and I can make it to the restaurant before it pours.
Another rumble of thunder breaks, closer this time. The windshield freckles with fine droplets, a silvery sheen that is more mist than rain.
I turn into Faye’s driveway and park, killing the engine. I grab my baseball cap from the passenger seat and pull it on as I get out of the truck. Backward, the way she said she likes it. I wouldn’t wear it on a date, but Faye is into it—and I took the good one.
The door swings open before I even knock.
And every cloud in my mind dissipates.
She’s stunning in a pastel-pink crop top that leaves a sliver of skin visible on top of the high waist of her jeans.
That strip of stomach is nothing. Except it’s everything.
I make myself look higher, not that the view up there does me any favors.
She’s beautiful as always, yes, but it’s the smile—the unrestrained joy at seeing me—that does me in. And her hair is up in a ponytail again.
I beam back at her. “Were you waiting for me?”
Her cheeks flush that pretty pink I can’t resist. “I saw your headlights.” She glances past me at the graying sky. “It looks like night already.”
“A storm is coming,” I confirm.
Her focus shifts to me, and the look she gives me whips me harder than the wind at my back. Her gaze drifts to the baseball cap. She bites her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth in a way that sends heat straight to my gut.
“You wore the cap,” she says.
I give her a once-over, slow and deliberate, letting my eyes travel from her face down to those jeans that fit her like a second skin, then back up to meet her eyes. “You have your hair up again.”
“You seem to enjoy pulling it when it’s like this.”
I reach behind her and tug on the ponytail.
“I do,” I murmur.
I’m not sure who moves first—if it’s me or her, or if we crash in the middle—but suddenly we’re kissing.
It’s pure fire, same as Friday night.
Her hands come up to my chest, fisting in my button-down shirt as my arms wrap around her waist, pulling her flush against me.
Her body melts into mine, soft and pliant and perfect. I back her up against the doorframe, pressing into her, and she makes a small sound in the back of her throat that nearly undoes me.
I kiss her with the desperation of a starved, reckless man. Because I have starved. Two days since the dock, and it feels like three years. Her mouth opens under mine, and I take full advantage, tasting her, learning her.
Her hands slide up to my shoulders, then into my hair, knocking the cap off. It falls to the floor, forgotten.
After a while—seconds, minutes, I have no idea—I force myself to pull back. We’re both breathing in sharp, uneven pulls. Her lips are swollen, her eyes heavy-lidded, and she looks thoroughly kissed.
“We have a reservation,” I manage, voice wrecked.
She pouts. And with her mouth puffy from the kiss, it’s even more maddening.
“I have instructions to bash you on the head when you make responsible decisions.”
I grin. “Then I guess I should act very irresponsibly.”
I kiss her again, harder, swallowing her gasp. My hand slides from her waist to her hip, fingers digging into the denim as I pull her against me. She arches into the contact, her nails scraping against my scalp.
This time, she’s the one who pulls back.
“We should get going,” she pants, “if we want to make dinner.”
I rest my forehead against hers, working to get my breathing under control. “Sure. Let’s go. I’m starving for food. No other cravings here.”
She beams at me. “As long as you’re sure.”
Lightning cracks in the distance, bright enough to carve the sky open. A clap of thunder follows a few seconds later.
Faye glances behind me. “It’s getting chilly. Let me grab something warmer.”
She disappears into the cottage, leaving me standing in the doorway like an idiot with a stupid grin on my face. I pick up my cap from the floor and pull it back on.
When she returns, she’s put on a cream knit cardigan, soft and oversized. She has more clothes on her, and somehow manages to look sexier, making me want to skip dinner entirely.
Later, I tell myself. Take it slow.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod, and we step outside.
The drizzle has turned into light, cold rain. I jog to the truck and open the passenger door for her, shielding her from the worst of it with my body. She slides in, and I close the door before rounding to the driver’s side.
As we hit the road, the rain comes down harder, fat and heavy drops that splatter against the windshield and drum against the truck roof. I flick on the wipers, and they beat a steady rhythm as we drive.
The restaurant is about twenty minutes away. Far enough from Blue Crescent Harbor that we’re unlikely to run into anyone we know, especially in this weather.
The steak and lobster joint is fancier than the places I usually go for.
Folded napkins and white tablecloths aren’t really my vibe.
But it’s not that upscale. Not the sleek, minimalist kind of spot Faye must’ve been used to in LA.
It’s Midwest fancy, with original oil paintings lining the walls, wooden panels from another era, and decades of dinners done right.
If it’s not up to her standards, Faye makes no show of it.
By the time we’re seated and have ordered our drinks, the weather outside has blown into a full storm. Wind rattles the windows while heavy rain streaks down the glass in sheets.
“I haven’t gone out to dinner in forever,” I say, settling back in my chair.
Faye smiles, her fingers tracing the stem of her glass. “I’ve tasted your mother’s cookies. If everything Mae makes is that amazing, why would you want to eat anywhere else?”
“Fair point.” I grin. “Mom’s cooking is the best. But nothing beats the company tonight.”
Her cheeks flush again, and she ducks her chin, hiding a smile behind her glass.
“Did you go out a lot in LA?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. I was more of a recluse, working on my games. I used to survive on takeout meals.” Her gaze drops to her wine. “I don’t miss that about my past life.”
The words come out heavy. Is there anything else she misses? Not her ex, from what she told me. But after what happened with Abigail, I can’t stop worrying that everyone in my life could be at flight risk.
“I’ve been taking online cooking classes,” Faye continues, her voice brightening. “I love making my own meals now.” She tilts her head, studying me. “What about you? Do you cook anything other than pancakes?”
I laugh. “Yes, but we mostly eat at the old farmhouse. Mom’s cooking is hard to beat, like you said. It saves time. And”—I hesitate, then decide to be honest—“we also don’t want Mom to rattle around that big house by herself.”
Faye’s eyes soften with concern. “Did your father…” She trails off, probably not knowing how to finish the question.
“He died young,” I say, the words easier now than they used to be. “Fell off a horse when he was forty and hit his head on a rock.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” I sip my beer, letting the cold wash away the tightness in my throat. “It was a long time ago.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty. I had to grow up fast after that. Take over the management of Hollow Creek.”
Her eyes search mine, filled with sympathy. “That must’ve been tough.”
“Yeah.” I force a smile, deflecting the heaviness. “It was rough. But on the bright side, it made me great at pretending I know what I’m doing.”
She smirks now, and the mood shifts, lightens. “Mmm, it isn’t all pretense. You seemed pretty competent the other night.”
“Yeah? I feel I could use a few more pointers. Do you give private lessons, Miss Rose?”
“Not usually, but I could make an exception for you, Mr. Evans.”
We fall into easy conversation. Flirty and light, a back-and-forth that keeps circling into small, surprising truths.
She tells me about arriving in Missouri and ending up stuck behind a tractor parade.
I tease her about surviving city traffic but not cornfields.
She laughs like she forgot to keep her guard up, like she’s willing to let me see the parts she hides from everyone else.
Gosh, I want that sound in my life every day.
The appetizers arrive, and we dig in while the storm outside gets wilder. Rain lashes against the windows, spurred on by strong winds that make the building creak.
I’m mid-bite when both our phones ping at the same time—as do all the other phones in the restaurant.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, and my stomach drops.
Emergency Alert
National Weather Service: Tornado Warning in this area until 9.
30 p.m. CDT. Take shelter now in a basement or an interior room on the lowest floor of a sturdy building.
If you are outdoors, in a mobile home, or in a vehicle, move to the closest substantial shelter and protect yourself from flying debris. Check Media.
My blood turns to ice.
Rhys. My son is at home with my mom, with a fucking tornado bearing down on them, and I’m not there.
I look up at Faye.
“We have to go,” I say, already standing, throwing cash on the table.
Her face is pale, her eyes wide. “Ryder, we can’t go.”
“What do you mean we can’t go?”
People around me stand too, as the restaurant staff direct everyone to the back, away from the windows.
Faye gets up. “It’s not safe. The warning says to stay inside.”
“But Rhys—”
She comes to my side and grabs my arms. “Putting your life at risk won’t help him. He’s already without a parent; he can’t lose you, too.”
She’s making sense, of course she is, but every instinct in me wants to jump into my truck and go make sure my son is okay.
“Call your mom,” Faye suggests. “I’m sure they are alright.”
I’m already pulling up my mother’s contact when another text comes in.
Mom
We’re fine. Remy and Becky are with us. We are in the basement for precaution, but the storm is hitting the northeast shore harder than here. Are you okay?
I inhale the first intake of air that doesn’t burn my lungs. Rhys is fine. They’re fine. Remy and Rebecca are with them. They are safe.
I follow the rest of the restaurant patrons to the storage room as I text back that I’m okay and safe.
Faye and I sit in a corner next to other scared strangers. She grabs my hand and squeezes. “Rhys will be okay.”
I nod, but as the wind howls and claws at the walls, all I can think about is my boy in that old house with a tornado coming, and that I’m not there to protect him.