Chapter 8
The flight back to shore felt endless—like they were crossing the whole Gulf of Alaska. Ryder kept his eyes on Ivy through the intercom chatter and the thrum of the rotors.
Standard procedure.
Head injuries required monitoring. Pupils, reflexes, alertness. He knew the checklist cold. None of it covered the way his jaw locked every time she flinched at the helicopter’s vibration.
She sat across from him in the jump seat, pale against the orange survival vest, George’s hand wrapped around hers where it rested on her knee. The sight of their joined fingers hit him low and dumb. Completely irrational. They were siblings, for Christ’s sake. But his gut didn’t care about logic.
It wasn’t George who’d lifted her off the rig deck or felt her weight against his chest, her hair brushing his jaw, her clean scent of citrus and saltwater cutting through the reek of fuel.
That had been him, and he couldn’t shake it. The memory of her softness was burned into his arms, like his body refused to let it go.
He forced his gaze out of the window, where storm clouds built into towering walls of purple and black.
Wyatt’s voice crackled over the headset, requesting priority landing. Routine. Nothing about this flight should feel different from a hundred others.
But it did.
Because of her.
His eyes drifted back again. Ivy’s head rested against the seat, her hair mussed from the hard hat, blonde strands escaping from what had probably started as a perfect arrangement. Grease stained her expensive suit where she’d hit the deck.
She looked breakable in her harness, a scrape marring her jaw. Ryder’s fists curled tight on his knees.
“Approaching Aurora Cove,” Wyatt announced. “ETA five minutes.”
Through the windows, the coastline came into view—waves breaking higher against the rocks as the weather rolled in. The town looked smaller from up here, more vulnerable.
Like her.
Despite the crosswinds, Wyatt brought them in smoothly. Ryder was out of his harness first, leaning toward her. “How are you feeling?” His hands brushed her wrist as he helped with the buckle, automatically checking her pulse. Rapid but regular.
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” she offered a thin smile. “But better than I did an hour ago.”
“Good. Any dizziness?”
She shook her head carefully.
“If it gets worse—any nausea, blurred vision—you go straight to a doctor. No arguments.”
“I will.”
Outside the 407, George hurried to her side, fussing like he could shield her with words alone. “Ivy. You sure you’re okay to walk? We can grab a cab to the Inn, get you settled.”
“Actually, I can give you both a ride,” Ryder said. “I’ll grab your luggage and get you to the hotel. It’s on my way home.”
What the hell, Ryder?
Aurora Cove Inn was fifteen minutes in the opposite direction.
“That’s very kind.” She met his gaze for a beat. “But we don’t want to impose—”
“It’s no imposition.” Another lie.
The parking lot was nearly empty at the late hour, just a few Coast Guard vehicles and Wyatt’s sleek Volvo.
Ryder’s truck sat at the far end, dark blue paint faded from salty air and hard use.
It was a working vehicle with enough ground clearance to handle the logging roads he sometimes used for fishing access.
He was halfway across the lot when he remembered.
Shit.
Ellie’s car seat was still strapped into the back bench—the physical evidence of the most important part of his life, and the one he kept separate from everything else. Especially from attractive women who asked too many questions and made him feel things he’d rather not examine.
Drive them to the hotel. Forget it. What she thinks doesn’t matter.
Fuck. Another lie.
They were piling up.
At the truck, he opened the passenger door for her.
Her fingers curled around the frame as she climbed in, flexing a tiny white scar along her knuckle.
The bright pink car seat blared its presence—princess decals, a glittering crown stitched into the headrest, impossible to miss.
Ivy’s gaze flicked toward it, but her expression remained unreadable.
“Ellie’s three,” he said, before he could stop himself.
Smooth, Ryder. Announce her age like it’s a crime scene report.
Her gaze lingered on the car seat. “That’s a lovely name,” she said softly, leaving it at that.
No judgment. He braced for a pause, for the shift he always saw in women when they understood what came with him. It never came.
George slid into the back without hesitation, oblivious to the awkward weight of the moment. Ryder caught the flicker of Ivy’s glance—the only reaction that counted—before easing the passenger door shut.
He hefted their suitcases into the bed of his F-150, swung the tailgate closed, and slid in behind the wheel, more aware of her quiet presence beside him than anything else.
Her shoulder was a breath away from brushing his arm.
Her perfume threaded through the cab, mingling with pine and motor oil.
He flexed his grip on the wheel until the leather creaked.
He needed the distraction of motion—mirrors, gears, anything to keep from noticing how every inhale pulled her deeper into him.
The familiar rumble of the V8 grounded him as he adjusted the heat. The truck’s interior was clean but lived-in—coffee stains on the center console, Ellie’s princess doll with bouffant hair wedged into the cup holder, an air freshener hanging off the rearview mirror.
“Aurora Cove Inn?” He checked even though he already knew the answer. It was the only decent hotel in town.
“Yes, thank you,” George replied from the back seat.
Fifteen minutes later, Ryder pulled into the circular drive of the Inn and put the truck in park, the engine idling.
“This is it,” he said, stating the obvious.
Ivy turned to face him. Some color had returned to her cheeks. “Thank you. For today. And the ride. For everything.”
The memory of her weight in his arms, of how perfectly she’d fit against his chest, sent heat coursing through him.
“Just doing my job.” Even though it hadn’t felt like a job at all.
“No.” Her voice was quiet. “It was more than that.”
George was already halfway out, tossing Ryder a polite thank you in the same tone he might use with a valet.
Ryder barely heard him. His attention was all on Ivy, lingering in the open door.
She paused with one hand on the frame. “Well. Thank you again.”
She followed George toward the inn’s entrance, her posture upright despite what had to be lingering pain from the fall. Ryder waited until they disappeared through the front doors, then sat for a long moment in the idling truck.
He should be relieved. She was gone, out of his truck, out of reach.
Tomorrow he’d fall back into routine—pick up Ellie from preschool, pretend today had never happened.
That was the life he’d built, the one he told himself he wanted.
So why did watching her walk away feel like losing something he hadn’t known he was missing?