“But since he’s the only Bigfoot in town, he just goes by the family name.”
“So there are more?” Ryder asked. “Bigfoots. Bigfeet?”
“Foots. Yeah. They do a family reunion thing every so many years. Not in Ordinary. This year is the reunion year.”
“When?”
“Soon, I think. It’s a complicated thing involving moon cycles and hair growth.”
He grunted.
“Right around the beginning of the year anyway.” I shrugged. “We’re in the ballpark.”
“All right. And you think he might have taken the streetlight?”
“Honestly, no. It’s not like him. Light bulbs, yes. Traffic signals? He’s never stolen anything other than bulbs. Why would he start stealing such large, obvious, and expensive things now?”
“For the family reunion? Maybe that’s how the Bigfoots show they’re successful? Whoever can steal the biggest light wins?”
I chuckled. “He’s never said anything about that kind of thing, and Myra’s looked through all the records. Stealing traffic signals—for any reason—isn’t in them.”
“Yeah, well, people can surprise you. The kinds of things they don’t want to talk about.”
I held my breath for a minute, then lowered my binoculars. “I… should apologize. For avoiding you and avoiding talking about our vacation.”
He rested his binoculars on the dashboard. “You’ve talked about it. I seem to recall a lot of ‘Later,’ and ‘I don’t like that one,’ and ‘It’s so busy this time of year.’”
I winced. “Yeah, that’s basically what I need to talk about. All my excuses.”
I rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans and licked my lips. I wanted to get this right. I wanted him to know this wasn’t about us. Well, it was, but it wasn’t about me loving him, because that was solid. I was solid with that. Unshakable.
It was more about me trying to figure out how to let go of my responsibilities. Just for a few days.
“Hey.” Ryder’s hand landed on the back of my neck, sliding under my long ponytail and gently squeezing the tight muscles there and sending a trickle of heat down my spine. “I love you, you know that, right?” he asked.
I blew out a breath. “I know. I love you too.” It came out wooden, like I’d never said it before, like someone else was using my mouth without my consent.
I groaned. “This is not going how I wanted it to go.”
His hand stilled. After a heartbeat, two, his palm flexed again, kneading muscle. “Us?” he asked.
I twisted so quickly, his hand dislodged. “No! Not us. We—” I pointed between us, “—we’re good. We’re going where we want us to go. Right?” I asked, trying and failing to hold his steady gaze. “We’re still good?”
His fingertips were back, stroking across my neck, calloused from the build he’d just completed. He’d remodeled a little Tudor-style home that had suffered through a parade of owners who all thought bigger and more modern was better. They had ‘trend-chased the original design right off a cliff.’
He was an architect, yes, but here in Ordinary, hands-on builds were the bread and butter of his business. Plus, he couldn’t keep his mitts off a tool belt if he tried.
“We’re good,” he said soft and low, enough burr in his voice for me to feel it under my skin, warming me. “But you’re still not telling me where you want to go on vacation.”
This was it, my chance to tell him how I was really feeling. We were going to be married. I needed to be up front with how I felt and what I needed from him. Just like I expected him to be up front with me.
“I want to go on vacation tomorrow,” I said, as evenly as I could. “But I don’t know if I can.”
He drew his fingertips away. I immediately missed their warmth. “Okay.”
I waited for him to say more, for him to ask why. Instead, he just picked up his binoculars and trained them back on the store.
I was sitting right next to him. There couldn’t be more than a foot between us. The darkness of night—hastened by the storm, but always early at this time of year—closed us in. Gave us this intimate space.
