Ryder makes me flustered. And not in a good way. He’s attractive, confident, and he obviously has a ton of money.
But I know deep down in my bones that he is not good for me. Not good for the farm that my grandmother bequeathed to me because my mom was never interested in this place and decided to abandon it—and me—when someone just like Ryder came around. Someone who would promise the world but could never deliver.
He’s playing the part so perfectly. Thejeans, theflannel,the mention of his grandmother’s apple pie?—
I have to figure out if that was true. As much as I know that grandparents are very lovable and all that, it seems tooconvenient that webothhave strong connections with our grandmothers?—
The thought hits my chest in a way that has my muscles sagging.
What I wouldn’t do to have my grandmother’s guidance right now. She was a great judge of character. Someone who could eye a man up after no more than a few words and determine whether he was worthy or not.
She did that with my mother’s husband, when she first met him. I was no more than three or four at the time and my mother, who was barely twenty years old, brought home a man who referred to himself as an entrepreneur. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but I remember the look on my grandmother’s face. One brow raised as her eyes took in his suit, the watch on his wrist.
She was always cordial, but I remember that moment like it was yesterday. My grandmother, first determining that this man wasn’t worth his salt, and second, the kind look in her eye after they left—and I didn’t realize my mom wasleavingleaving—when she asked if I wanted to have ice cream for dinner and watch a movie.
I’ve seen my mother a handful of times since then. On occasion, she asked my grandmother for money and would throw a fit when the answer wasn't to her liking. She’s still married to the same guy, but apparently his flavor of entrepreneurship doesn’t pay as much as either of them would have liked.
I peel off my clothes and throw them into a pile behind my bathroom door. Luckily, my hair didn’t make it into the stream so I should be okay to tie it up, rinse myself off, and continue on like nothing ever happened.
I glance out the window at the rapidly descending darkness.
I don’t know if Ryder is going to get his tour tonight.
As I step into the shower and let the warm water run over me, I wonder if he’s even still here.
If it were me, I probably would have seized the opportunity to make a quick exit.
But Ryder is not like me. Aside from the whole having grown up here and loving his grandmother thing.
A minute later, I step out of the water, relieved that I washed the stream water off of me but not quite able to shake the slimy feeling of my butt hitting the silt at the bottom.
I tiptoe out of the bathroom and pull on a pair of leggings and a new sweater before heading back downstairs, my body and mind warring with each other because there’s a part of me that sees a handsome man and wants to imagine what could happen, but there’s another part of me that sees that same handsome man and wants to run in the other direction as quickly as I can.
And when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I want to yell at my traitorous heart for thumping the way it does.
Because Ryder looks natural on my couch. Confident, with one ankle resting on the opposite knee.
And the grin that spreads across his face when he sees me makes my heart race.
8
RYDER
Eve comes down from her shower looking winded. She’s wearing a new sweater in a similar cream color to the one she was wearing before and leggings topped with bare feet that pad nearly silently across the wood floor.
Before she can say or do anything to make it clear that I should leave, I stand, grabbing her wine glass off the coffee table and pressing it into her hand. I’ve barely touched mine—whiskey is my drink of choice—but I take a sip regardless.
“Thank you,” she says, beelining for the armchair adjacent to the couch.
I’m hoping that despite our brief swim, we can continue with our night.
I left my wet shoes and socks in the tray by the door, and while I’ve felt confident around Eve until this point, something about walking around barefoot in her house has me questioning things. A sense of comfort has overtaken me—more comfort than I feel even at my own apartment in the city—andit’s putting me on edge.
“Are you alright?” I ask as she takes a thirsty sip of her wine and leaves the glass on the coffee table between us.
She huffs. “I’m bummed about my sweater, but I’m physically okay.”
I nod. “Was it cashmere?”
