Rue
. . .
make a wish
The flowers in our clearing have tripled since yesterday, like the soil was holding them prisoner and the storm set them free. I can’t name many of them, but I recognize vivid purple lupines, poppies, lavender and pink daisies, and dandelions.
So many dandelions.
I’ve been sitting on the bottom step outside the cabin long enough for the sunlight to spread from my feet to the tops of my thighs. My legs are roasting, my stomach begging for lunch, and the mud on my arms is dry and flaky.
But I don’t move.
I can’t stop staring at the cluster of small yellow flowers growing beside the bottom step of the porch. Close enough to touch. The perfect size for making crowns.
My mother referred to dandelions as garish weeds, and my father routinely blamed them for destroying his lawn.
Every year before they bloomed, he’d mow over them so they wouldn’t go to seed.
But it never made a difference. They came back twice as dense the next year, and the next, until they wrapped around the whole house.
Thanks to Teddy.
On our walks to and from school, we’d pass a field with an old, gnarled oak growing precariously out of a half-eroded hill.
Every spring, the field exploded with dandelions.
At least a few times a week on our way home, we’d hop over the rotted, single-plank fence and trudge up to the oak, collecting as we went.
I’d pluck small flowers with long stems, and Teddy would pick just as many fluffy seed-clouds.
We’d take our bounties around the oak and sit where we wouldn’t be seen from the road.
While I braided us flower crowns, Teddy would pick out the biggest seed-cloud, make a wish, and blow.
Then he’d strip the heads off the rest and stuff the resulting mess into his pockets.
When it came time to leave, we’d discard our crowns on a decaying pile of my previous efforts.
But Teddy’s seeds left with us. Little by little, every single seed would find its way out of his pockets as we cut across our front yard.
After he died, I couldn’t bear to walk past the field anymore and found a different route home. The next time I saw it was right before I left town.
The oak was long gone, the field leveled and filled with tract homes.
A flower crown sits in my lap, a second halfway to completion, when I finally hear the hum of the golf cart outside the clearing.
My fingers pause as I consider making a break for it, but I hesitate too long—familiar footsteps are already moving up the path. River’s walking slower than usual, but he doesn’t seem to be limping.
That I recognize his stride without seeing him should probably concern me, but all I feel is relief.
Keeping my head bowed so the brim of my baseball hat conceals my face, I resume work on the crown. The closer he comes, the faster my fingers move. Trim, split, braid, link.
I expect him to walk past me; naturally, he does the opposite.
“What are you doing, Ruin?”
After hours of worrying about his well-being, his teasing words land like flakes of salt in a wound.
“What does it look like I’m doing, your highness?”
I stiffen as soon as I hear the trap I laid for myself—a trap River’s satisfied hum tells me is about to spring closed.
“It looks like you’ve been sitting out here all morning. Were you worried about me?”
“You wish. I just came outside a few minutes ago.”
“Then why are you still muddy?”
I shrug, pretending to focus on connecting the final piece of the crown. “Maybe I like being muddy.”
The amusement in his voice disappears. “Do you think if I can’t see your face, I can’t tell you’re lying? FYI, your voice completely changes.”
I almost crush my newly finished crown. “Shouldn’t you go lie down? Or are you miraculously healed?”
He exhales a bitter laugh. “Is it that hard for you to look at me? To say, ‘I’m glad you’re okay, River’?”
Beneath the bitterness is something that interrupts my breath with a silent gasp. Something I’ve never, ever heard from him before.
Vulnerability.
My defensive walls fracture, revealing an uncomfortable truth. How can I expect him to ever treat me differently if I don’t make the same effort? If I don’t answer his honesty with my own?
The behavior doesn’t come naturally—not with him—but I seize an ember of courage. It’s not enough to look at him, but it does fuel the necessary words.
“You’re right. I was worried. It’s my fault you got hurt—I was on the wrong side of the path. I haven’t showered because I wasn’t sure when you’d be back or if you’d need the hot water. I’m really glad you’re okay.”
Surprise coats his swift inhale.
“I appreciate that. Don’t beat yourself up too much though. My back was already on thin ice before we collided.” His voice is soft now. Gentle currents. “Kirk bullied me into acupuncture, and it helped a lot.”
Swallowing the last dying gasps of my ego, I lift my head.
“That’s g-good—”
My throat closes, crushing my voice to a wheeze. Probably for the best since I can’t remember what I was about to say.
He clearly showered elsewhere; the only mud to be seen is on the sneakers he’s holding by the laces.
There’s a reusable tote in his other hand and flimsy spa slippers on his feet that don’t look nearly as ridiculous as they should.
He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of too-short, gauzy white pants.
They sit obscenely low on his hips, the fabric virtually see-through, but I’m too stunned to register his obvious lack of underwear or the visible outline of his not remotely small dick.
Because his hair is down.
My longtime theory, that River never wears his hair down because it looks dumb, floats away on the same breeze that teases his drying dark waves. No product. No styling. Just effortless perfection framing his face and tumbling past his collarbones.
I have no idea what expression I’m wearing—hopefully one in the realm of abhorrence—but it makes River frown and look down.
He curses, yanking the tote bag in front of his crotch, then offers me a wincing smile. “Sorry.”
I don’t correct the assumption, mainly because I’m having trouble breathing after his smile gave me a glimpse of his elongated canines.
Between the fangs, hair, and his aureate eyes, he embodies every vampire fantasy I’ve ever had. Not the sparkly kind of vampire, either, despite the sunlight currently playing favorites with his tan skin. The darkly possessive, feral kind that bites first and apologizes later.
I’m clearly unwell.
Maybe I have heatstroke.
Can you get heatstroke when the temperature is in the seventies?
River clears his throat, drawing my unfocused gaze from his mouth to his eyes. His are averted, his cheeks ruddy.
Is he… holy shit, is he blushing?
His throat works. “Okay, then. Good talk. I’m going to lie down on some heat. Feel free to shower.”
As he passes me, he plucks the flower crown from my limp hands. I don’t protest, too busy trying to redirect my lurid imagination to something, anything else.
By the time I’m successful, he’s almost at his door.
“River, wait!”
I hurry up the steps and find him with a hand on his doorknob. His shoes and bag sit discarded by his feet, the flower crown dangling from his wrist.
He arches a brow. “I’m not giving my crown back.”
I grin, unreasonably pleased. “I just had a question. Consider an answer payment for the unparalleled work of floral art you’re holding.”
His lips twitch even as his eyes turn wary. “What’s the question?”
On some level, I know this is a bad idea. My curiosity has a well-established habit of overpowering my common sense. But the words tumble out anyway.
“Why are you here, at PAC? Why didn’t you defend yourself last night? Why does it seem like you’re trying to make everyone hate you?”
The change is immediate. All trace of emotion drains from his face, his eyes dulling to fossilized amber. Left behind is a mask both chilling and familiar, and I cross my arms over the sudden sting in my chest.
“That was three questions,” he says flatly.
“Just the last one then.” My tone isn’t dissimilar from the one I use to soothe animals. Gentle and genuine, it works on humans too.
But not River.
His lips thin, his jawline sharpening and flexing. If I were closer, I’d likely hear the grind of his teeth. Then the glimpse of emotion disappears, his mask sliding back into place.
My pulse kicks as he drapes the flower crown on his doorknob, then pivots fluidly in my direction. Miraculously, my gaze stays above his neck as he takes a languid step toward me, then another step, and another, until he’s close enough for me to feel the heat coming off his body.
Inscrutable, half-lidded eyes track over my face like they’re cataloging every freckle and flaw. The urge to back up a step or five presses on me, but I’m too stubborn—or maybe too reckless—to move.
I try not to think about his transparent pants or the space between our hips. I try to ignore how good he smells, like sugary citrus and warm forests. And I really, really try not to think about the fangs behind his sinfully shaped lips.
I might as well try to stop a tidal wave with a net.
Between one heartbeat and the next, I’m flooded with the poison of his proximity. There’s a hard tug beneath my navel and a dropping sensation along my centerline. My nipples tighten. My pulse throbs between my thighs.
Thankfully, I have nine years of practice compartmentalizing his effect on my hormones.
“What is it with you and personal space?”
He glances down, then back up. His brows pinch in an almost-frown. “I’m at least two feet away from you.”
“So? Your lungs are twice the size of mine.”
His mask cracks a little more, confusion shining through. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Oxygen, dude. You’re taking it all.” When I hear the words out loud, I want to slap myself. I blurt, “I’m claustrophobic.”
Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to make sense of it. He shakes his head.
“Why does talking to you always feel like running on quicksand?”