Juniper kisses him.
“My husband is so clever.”
Eliot beams.
“Another fun fact is that men named Ryan have a statistically elevated risk of death by hubris,” he continues.
“No one dies of pride,” Ryan snaps, but he’s sweating now.
“That’s what late Ryan Diddle-Swaddle used to say.”
Ryan turns for the door.
Jørgen is there. For a man as big as he is, he has entered very stealthily.
“I carve coffins,” he says, crossing his massive arms. “I offer a discount to
people who plan ahead.” He looks Ryan up and down. “Five feet nine inches?”
“I’m not—I’m buying a house, not a coffin!” Ryan sputters.
“The Finns plan funerals for fun,” Maija comments.
She tilts her head.
“What’s your favorite hymn, Mr. Rutherford? I personally like “Those Who Mock Shall Melt”—but if you want something less cheerful, “The Gentle Roasting of the Wicked” could suit you.”
Ryan makes a choked sound and spins.
That’s when he spots me.
His eyes bulge, his gaze flicking from me to Caspian’s arms tightening around me.
And I see it.
The confusion. The frantic rearranging of a story he thought he had figured out . In Ryan’s narrative, I’m alone. I’m the easy target—small, anxious, friendless.
No one stood behind me.
No one objected.
Until now.
And suddenly his story doesn’t work anymore.
Caspian—whose name Ryan used to say with respect, whose name stands for status and power—is holding me like I’m the only thing in the world worth holding.
And all around us, Baywood stands shoulder to shoulder.
This town would help me bury a body, and Ryan is finally realizing he’s the only one without a shovel.
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. For once, he has no script.
I clear my throat, drawing courage from Caspian’s arms around me.
“Relax,” I say, surprised by how steady I sound. “You always get so worked up, Ryan.”
Throwing his own words back at him feels enormous. Monumental.
