Chapter 3 Rylie
RYLIE
The Wildwood Ridge Roadhouse smelled like fresh paint and new wood. I inhaled and closed my eyes, taking in the scent…
Wait, was that fried onions?
I followed Devon inside—we happened to arrive at the same time—and tried very hard not to look like a woman whose nerves were doing backflips.
I had agreed to have drinks with a man I’d met approximately a half-hour ago.
A man I had accidentally—and unavoidably—seen in his underwear.
A man whose body had imprinted itself on my brain like the world’s most inappropriate background wallpaper.
What was I even doing?
The place was bigger than I expected. Exposed beams stretched overhead, light bulbs glowed warm and cozy, and the bar gleamed like someone spent way too much time polishing it. A small stage sat empty in the corner, undoubtedly waiting for some guy with a guitar and deep emotional baggage.
“Devon,” a voice shouted from across the room.
A group of men sat at a big table near the back—his crew. Big, loud, flannel-wearing firefighter types who probably chopped wood recreationally.
Devon lifted a hand but didn’t make a move toward them. “Want to meet them first, or…”
“Sure.”
I was definitely lying, but survival mode won.
The guys all stood when we walked up—tall, broad shoulders, matching ruggedness like they were part of a catalog called Mountain Men and Minor Emergencies.
"Guys, this is Rylie. She's the vet tech at the new clinic." Devon gestured to each man in turn. "Mason, Conner, Hux."
"The new clinic in the trailer?" Mason asked. "Right next door to us?"
"That's the one," I said.
"Welcome to the neighborhood," Conner said with a grin. "Though I guess we're the new neighbors, technically."
"How's Dr. Hanson doing?" Hux asked. "Haven't met him yet, but heard good things."
"Her," I corrected. "And she's great. Out of town this weekend for a conference."
Mason grinned. “Welcome to the valley.”
A server appeared—Gabby, according to her name tag—bright-eyed and clearly fond of the firefighters. “Another round?” she asked.
“Actually, we’re heading out,” Mason said, already grabbing his jacket.
“Already?” Gabby looked sad to see them go.
“Station calls,” Conner muttered, which would’ve been convincing if he wasn’t smiling like a liar.
Hux clapped Devon on the shoulder. “You stay. Enjoy your afternoon.”
They were gone in seconds, all three wearing matching smirks. Devon looked like he wanted to strangle every last one of them.
“Ignore them,” he said. “They’re terrible.”
“They seem nice.”
“They’re not.”
Gabby laughed and pulled out her notepad. “What can I get you two?”
Devon pointed at a high-top by the windows. “We’ll take that one. And I’ll have a Big Timber Lager. Rylie?”
“Margarita. On the rocks with salt.”
“And the loaded nachos and wings,” Devon added. “I never got lunch.”
“You got it.” Gabby winked at me as she left.
We sat, sunlight sliding across Devon’s jaw in a way that felt personally rude. The man really had no business looking that good for someone I’d met in a forest.
"So," he said, leaning back. "You local, or commuting in?"
"Commuting. I'm in Hartsville—about twenty minutes from here." I peeled off my coat, trying not to look like I was peeling off a layer of nerves too. "I want to move closer eventually, but have you seen the rent here? I’d have to auction a vital organ."
He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, it’s steep. So, do you plan to move here someday?”
“That’s the dream.” I sighed. “Mountains. Quiet. Actual seasons. Hartsville is…flat. Emotionally and geographically.”
“What kept you there?”
Before I could answer, Gabby returned with our drinks. My margarita was perfect. I took a sip and felt my whole body unclench.
“My dad,” I said once she left. “He’s a pastor. Very involved in the community. And in my life. Like…extremely.”
“Involved how?”
“Like…‘Tell me who you’re with, where you are, what time you’ll be home, and no boys.’” I made a face. “That was my entire adolescence. He meant well. Just…overprotective.”
Devon’s brow creased. “That sounds tough.”
“I mean, I survived,” I said, taking another drink. “But yeah. I didn’t date in high school. Or college. Or after college. Christian university close to home, living at home, entire social life monitored from a church office—it was a whole thing.”
He nodded. “Makes sense you’d want some freedom now.”
“Exactly.” My voice came out embarrassingly earnest.
Gabby returned then with nachos and wings that looked like they could solve at least half my problems. We dug in, and the conversation rolled surprisingly easily.
Devon talked about the new station. I asked about his construction work and pretended I didn’t internally swoon every time he said something gravelly.
By the time I finished my first margarita, I had warmth in my veins and confidence—like, actual confidence—circling my bloodstream like a little drunk cheerleader.
Gabby appeared again. “Another?”
“Yes please,” I said, a little too happily.
Devon raised an eyebrow but didn’t say a word.
The second margarita made me bold. Loose. Dangerously chatty.
“I haven’t dated,” I heard myself say. “Like…at all.”
Devon froze, wing halfway to his mouth.
“Couple of coffee dates, nothing major. One guy kissed me after church once, and my dad banned me from youth group for a month.”
Devon stared. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I snorted. “So yeah, I’m twenty-three and basically at, like…an eighth-grade level romantically.”
“Not embarrassing.”
“It’s a little embarrassing,” I said, picking at a nacho. “Especially when I meet a guy like you and have zero clue how to let him know I’m interested.”
His jaw clenched. “Rylie—”
“I’m a virgin,” I blurted.
Time froze. Like actual freeze-frame.
Devon inhaled his beer. Wrong. He coughed. Loudly. Very loudly.
“Oh my gosh—are you okay?” I reached toward him like I knew CPR. I didn’t.
He waved me off, coughing, then finally swallowed. “I’m fine. Just—surprised.”
“Nobody ever expects it,” I muttered. “But also—I can’t stop thinking about those boxers.”
He stilled.
“The black ones,” I clarified, because apparently tequila disables my shame functions. “When you were cooking. I keep thinking about them, and I kind of want to see them again. Is that weird?”
He stood so fast, his chair screeched. “We should go.”
“Go where?”
“My place,” he said. Then scrubbed a hand through his hair. “If you want. No pressure. None. Zero. But if you’re saying what I think—”
“I’m saying I want to see the boxers again.” I grabbed my coat. “And maybe what’s under them.”
His eyebrows arched. “Rylie.”
“Devon.”
Something electric crackled between us—warm, terrifying, and wildly intoxicating.
“Actually,” I said, because apparently tequila had dropped every single inhibition I had left, “can we take the fire truck for a spin first?”
He blinked. “Wait—what?”
“The fire truck.” I nodded earnestly. “I’ve never been in one. And I want to. Desperately. Please?”
He stared at me like I had asked for the moon. Then he grabbed my hand.
“Let’s go.”
And just like that, I followed him out of the roadhouse—heart pounding, margaritas humming—and straight into possibly the worst or best decision of my life.