Chapter 29
FAYE
The room is obscene.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of the lake that belongs on a postcard; the sunset glides gold and amber across the water, turning the surface into liquid fire.
The bed is massive, draped in linens with a thread count with more zeros than my bank account.
I wince to myself. Too soon to be making jokes about the thing that ruined my life. Twice.
Everything smells expensive: citrus peel and amber mixed in a designer room spray that whispers exclusivity.
I hate it.
I drop my bag onto a tufted velvet armchair and sit at the foot of the bed, springs giving with perfect, engineered softness. My hands shake as I pull out my phone.
No new messages.
Nothing from Ryder.
I open our text thread. The last message is from me, sent when I was still in the car—I didn’t make it out of Hollow Creek before I stopped on the side of the road to reach out.
Faye
I’m so sorry. Please, can we talk?
I swipe the message to the left to see the receipt confirmation:
Read today 6.47 p.m.
He got the text, read it, and chose not to respond.
My ribs compress around lungs that still won’t expand properly.
I type another message.
Faye
I know I should have told you. But please don’t shut me out
I hit send and track the status change to delivered. No blue ticks this time.
I take a shower, and when I re-emerge from the bathroom, the message shows as read, but with no reply.
I text again.
Faye
Ryder, please
Read today 8.04 p.m.
My vision blurs. I blink against the sting, but the tears fall anyway. I curl on the bed, phone clutched against my chest, and let the sobs wreck me. They rip out of me in ugly, choking sounds that echo in the perfect room with its perfect view.
I cry until my throat is raw, my face swollen, and my head pounds with a headache that sits behind my eyes like a vise. The sunset fades to dusk, the room darkening around me as I lie in a fetal position, willing my phone to light up with his name.
It never does. I fall asleep above the covers, still waiting.
Morning comes too early. My eyes are gritty, swollen. My head throbs from too much crying. I check my phone. Still nothing from Ryder.
I have to be at school in an hour, so despite wanting to burrow under the comforter and not face the world, I shower and add extra concealer under my eyes to hide the puffiness.
I exist in a fog all day. Checking my phone obsessively and doing my best to avoid speaking to anyone.
By the time the session ends, my body aches from hours of sitting in the same stiff position.
I gather my things and slip out before any of my coworkers corner me for small talk.
The drive back to the resort is a blur. I park in the underground garage and take the elevator up to my floor.
The hallway is quiet, and the plush carpet muffles my footsteps. I unlock my door and step inside.
Housekeeping has been in, making the bed and folding fresh towels in the bathroom. Everything is pristine.
And so damn empty.
I can’t spend another night alone in this room, staring at my phone, waiting for a message that won’t come.
I need… movement, noise, other people—but none that I know. Anything to keep my brain from eating itself alive with regret and what-ifs.
I’ll go to the bar downstairs. Sit in a corner with a drink—not a cocktail or I’d spiral into the fastest sad drunk, but a Coke or something—and be around other humans without having to interact. Strangers who don’t know me, don’t care, and won’t ask questions.
Better than staying here.
I change out of my work clothes and into jeans and an oversized hoodie. Comfortable, forgettable clothes. I pull my hair into a messy bun and don’t even check myself out in the mirror. I’m past caring how I look.
The bar is on the main floor, tucked off the lobby with dim lighting and a sophisticated vibe that plays off the shiny surfaces, velvet stools, and shelves of expensive liquor backlit in amber.
A handful of people are scattered around.
A couple in the corner booth, a lone businessman nursing a stiff drink at a table, two women laughing over martinis near the windows.
I claim a stool at the far end of the bar, away from everyone else.
The bartender wanders over. “What can I get you?”
“A Coke, please.”
If he finds it weird that I’m ordering soda at a fancy bar, he doesn’t show it. He nods and fills a glass with ice, adding Coke from the gun, and finishing it with a black straw and a lemon twist. He slides it across to me over a black napkin.
“Thanks.”
I wrap my hands around the cold glass and stare in the mirror behind the bar, watching the other patrons in the reflection. Not really seeing them, but existing in this space that isn’t my empty room.
Footsteps approach the bar, confident and unhurried. A blur of black leather passes behind me in the mirror.
The newcomer drops a black motorcycle helmet on the counter and sits a few stools over. His deep voice echoes to my left. “Macallan, neat.”
I roll my eyes at the order of the most expensive whiskey in the house. An asshole flex if I’ve ever heard one.
The bartender pours the drink—two fingers of amber liquid in a crystal tumbler—and sets it down at the other end of the bar.
I sip my Coke and ignore the new arrival.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t return the favor.
He keeps glancing over, never sitting still long enough to be overlooked—tapping his glass, tilting his head, watching me through the reflection in the mirror, then masking the look with a sip, like I wouldn’t notice.
Is he trying to get my attention? Why? I hope his plan is not to hit on me because I’m not in the mood.
My patience burns out. I set my drink down and turn to face him, ready to tell him to fuck off.
Then I see his face, and the words die in my throat.
He’s… striking. That’s the only word for it. Tall—at least as tall as Ryder—with sharp, aristocratic features that belong on a painting. High cheekbones. A jaw that could cut glass. Full lips that somehow look cruel.
His hair is short, black, and falls across his forehead stylishly disheveled despite just being flattened under a helmet.
He’s wearing riding leathers, practical but expensive-looking. The jacket hangs open over a white T-shirt that clings to a lean, athletic torso.
And his eyes are gunmetal gray. The color of storm clouds. Captivating, not for their shade but for the focus behind them, how controlled, deliberate, remarkable his gaze is.
He’s unfairly handsome for an asshole.
I recover fast from the shock of his beauty. I couldn’t care less how hot he is.
“Is there a particular reason you’ve been staring?” I ask, voice flat.
His mouth curves into a smirk, slow and maddeningly confident.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he picks up his whiskey and takes a sip, his gaze never leaving mine as if he’s savoring the moment. The power I gave him by speaking first.
When he lowers the glass, he shrugs one shoulder.
“I was simply wondering,” he says, his voice smooth and cultured, laced with a hint of amusement, “what Whitney Rose is doing at my hotel.”
He knows who I am. How? But my mind snags on a different detail first.
“Your hotel?” I echo.
He lifts a lean, elegant hand and points casually at the mirror behind the counter where, above the rows of gleaming bottles, etched in an elegant gold script, are the words: Rockwood Resort.
Ah. I glance at the bike helmet, and now it makes sense. “You must be Liam Rockwood.”
Heir to the Rockwood fortune. The man whose family is trying to take Ryder’s land.
His eyebrows lift. “Have we met?”
“No. But I’ve had the displeasure of being disturbed by your obnoxious bike. Some of the other deafened towners were kind enough to inform me who I had to thank.”
“Ah, guilty.” He chuckles as if my irritation amuses him. “Sorry about your hearing.”
He doesn’t sound sorry at all.
“How do you know my name?” I ask.
He leans back against the bar, completely at ease. “I’m a huge fan of the Eclipse Born series.”
My heart skips. Eclipse Born is my most popular RPG.
“I was totally hooked on parts one, two, and three,” Liam continues, swirling his whiskey.
“But when part four came out, and it was total crap, I did some digging to figure out what changed.” He tilts his head, gray eyes bright with amused provocation and, more worryingly, something close to admiration.
“And apparently, what changed is that you”—he points a finger at me—“didn’t program that game. ”
I try really hard not to be flattered.
Because he’s right. Eclipse Born IV is a pile of crap. They messed up the core values of the world, the new storylines are garbage, and the pacing is off. And I love that without me, the game bombed spectacularly, even if the saga was my most beloved work.
But I’m not about to admit any of that to Liam Rockwood.
“Why did you leave the industry?” he asks, his tone casual but his gaze sharp.
If he looked me up online, he already knows.
“No comment.”
“Are you going back to making video games?”
“No comment.”
His smirk widens. “Is there something you will comment on?”
I finish my Coke in one long gulp and stand, grabbing my phone and shoving it into my pocket.
“Yes,” I say, meeting his eyes. “The Evanses are my friends. And if your family even considers pulling strings to force a foreclosure while they’re down after being hit by a tornado, I’ll take care of whatever payments are due. You won’t get their land.”
I don’t know if I’m overstepping. If Ryder will hate me more for doing this. But if I do nothing, I’ll never forgive myself.
Surprise flickers across Liam’s face, and his smirk falters, jaw setting.
“Has my reputation in town gotten that bad?” he asks, and for the first time, his words aren’t laced with arrogance.
I don’t really know. Ryder only mentioned Liam’s father as being ruthless, and I can’t say how far the apple has fallen from the tree.
“Why don’t you run a focus group and find out?” I shoot back.
He scoffs at that, but has no comeback.
I turn to the bartender. “Can you put the drink on my room tab?”
Liam waves the request off. “It’s on the house, Whitney Rose.” He lifts his whiskey in a mock salute. “And if you ever make a game again, I’ll be the first to buy it.”
His smile returns, once again charming, cocky, and so infuriating.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” I roll my eyes and leave, followed by the echo of his chuckles.
Back in my room, I pace.
The charge from the confrontation with Liam Rockwood buzzes under my skin, making it impossible to sit still. I walk from the window to the door and circle again, thoughts spiraling.
I’m tired of sitting passively in this stuffily pretty room, wallowing in my grief, waiting for Ryder to forgive me.
If he’s going to be a stubborn, bullheaded cowboy, then I have no choice but to take him by the horns.
But I can’t do it alone. I need inside help.
I grab my phone and call his sister.