“You must think I’m a total nutcase after the way I walked out on you today.”
The self-deprecation in his voice makes me want to drive to his house right now and shake him. Or hug him. Or… so many other things.
“Just a concerned dad.”
“I was an ass to you.”
“A little bit.”
He laughs, the sound rusty but real. “Did I blow my second chance?”
The vulnerability in that question does something funny to my chest. “Not yet.” I sigh. “But you can’t ignore this problem and hope it goes away. Pretending the issue doesn’t exist is the worst thing you could do.”
“I know.” A long exhale. “So, what do I do, search childhood trauma psychologist on Craigslist?”
“Definitely do not go on Craigslist for this.” I chuckle. “We have an excellent counselor at school. I can ask her for recommendations. Keep it confidential, if you prefer.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Do you have time to take Rhys? With the farm and everything? I think it’s important for you to go together.”
“No, I fucking don’t.” His voice firms up, resolve threading through the exhaustion. “But I’ll make the time. For my son.”
That promise wraps around my heart and squeezes.
This is what gets me. Not the muscles or the eyes or how he moves in those damned jeans and leather thingies. This. The fierce, unrelenting love he has for his son. The way he’d burn himself to ash if it meant keeping Rhys warm.
“Thanks for calling me,” I whisper.
“Thank you for not giving up. I’m not used to people sticking around when things get tough.”
Ah, there he does it again, destroying me one tiny piece at a time. I could say it is my job to help the families of my students. Justify why I’m so invested in them. But this is not work, is it?
“I—I care about Rhys.”
I care about you, but I’m too chicken to say that aloud.
“He’s lucky to have you as his teacher.” Another silence loaded with everything we’re not saying. “I have to go now,” Ryder says. “I’ve an early morning tomorrow. Good night?” It sounds like a question.
“Night. I’ll send you a name when I have it.”
“Sure, thanks.”
He hangs up before I do.
I lower the phone to my lap and sit in the dim light of my living room, heart hammering, emotions rioting through my chest. Feelings that are spreading through me—warm and terrifying and utterly consuming—and that have nothing to do with physical attraction.
I’m starting to care about him.
And it’s a dangerous path. Riskier than flirting over texts or dancing at the Moonshine. This is a real connection, intimate, the kind that leaves scars when it ends.
16
RYDER
The sun beats down on the back of my neck as I hoist another bale of hay over the petting zoo fence. A goat attacks it, tearing into the twine with enthusiasm that borders on violence. I’ve spent the weekend playing farmhand for our small fun-farm operation while families wander through the rows of multicolored tulips Rebecca planted last fall before the ground froze. The turnout for the Tulip Festival has been great, but darn it, I wish everyone would just go home so I could finally listen to the ache between my shoulder blades warning me I’ve been on my feet too long. Get rid of these gloves that smell of alfalfa and animal feed, and soak in a tub until my skin prunes and my body stops protesting.
Just a couple more hours.
