He kisses me one more time. Quick and hard. Then he's gone, slipping out the back door.
I stand in my empty shop with my heart racing and my lips swollen and the taste of him still on my tongue.
I did it. I reached for what I wanted. I fought instead of waiting to be picked.
And whatever happens next—whatever complications come, whatever pain might be waiting at the end—right now, in this moment, I'm proud of myself.
I'm done being small. Done settling for crumbs. Done waiting for permission to want things.
I'm Lucy Wright. I own a business. I know my worth.
And I want Ryder Blackwood.
My phone lights up.
Ryder: "Tonight. After everyone's asleep. I'll be parked at the end of the street."
The message makes my stomach flip with anticipation and nerves.
Me: "What time?"
Ryder: "10:30. Think you can sneak out?"
Me: "Yes."
Ryder: "Good. Wear something warm."
The words make heat pool low in my belly. Because we both know we're done with just talking.
At dinner, I pick at my food while Connor talks about the charity game ticket sales. Emma shoots me knowing looks. Dad asks about the shop's holiday numbers. I give answers that sound normal even though nothing feels normal anymore.
Ryder sits across from me. Our eyes meet once and the air goes thick.
After dinner, I escape to my room. Shower. Stand in my closet trying to decide what to wear. Something comfortable but also something that makes me feel confident. Brave.
I settle on jeans and a soft sweater. My warmest coat. Hair down because he seems to like it that way.
I wait in my room, reading the same page of a book three times without absorbing a word. Listen to the sounds of the house settling. Connor's TV turning off. Emma putting Maisie to bed. Dad's door closing.
At ten-twenty, I slip out of my room. Take the back stairs. The house is dark and quiet. My heart hammers with every step.
I ease out the front door, closing it silently behind me. The night is cold and clear. Christmas lights glow from neighboring houses. My breath makes clouds in the air.
At the end of the street, headlights flash once. I walk toward them, pulse racing.
Ryder's truck idles at the curb. He leans over and opens the passenger door.
I climb in. The cab smells like him. Cedar and mint and winter air.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi." My voice barely works.
"You ready?"
"I think so."
He shifts into drive and pulls away from the curb. His hand finds mine across the console. Laces our fingers together. The touch says everything we're not saying out loud.
