I smooth down my dress, not meeting Ryder’s eyes as he rounds the tractor to join me.
“Miss Rose!” Rhys jumps off the trailer. “Wasn’t that the best?”
“It was wonderful, Rhys. Thank you for convincing me to come.”
Ryder’s son skips toward us, but the kid doesn’t make it two steps before his uncle, the man who danced with Ryder and Rebecca at the Moonshine, swoops in, lifting Rhys onto his shoulders.
Rhys protests about being carried away, and Remy replies with what sounds like an excuse about needing a sturdy set of arms to clear the lemonade stand.
The brother winks at Ryder. “Go pick some flowers, keep the customers happy.”
Ryder flips him the bird.
Rhys squeals that it’s a dollar for the swear jar, then spreads his arms like airplane wings as his uncle zigzags away, matching each tilt with a dramatic swoop and leaving Ryder and me alone.
Is Ryder’s family trying to matchmake us? Did Ryder ask them?
His ears are pink, and his scowl deep. No, he clearly didn’t ask Rebecca to put me on the hayride or his brother to whisk his son away the moment we returned.
“We don’t have to pick flowers if you have other things to do,” I offer, giving him an out.
Ryder looks down at me, and his entire face opens up, brightening.
“Nah, I’m in. Please excuse my brother; Remy can be a bit of an ass sometimes.”
I smile at him. “Runs in the family?”
Ryder chuckles, and the sound ties my ovaries in a knot. They beg me to please let them have his babies. Other parts of me are on board with the process required to achieve that result.
“Touché.” He dips his head in that charming, old-fashioned way he has, and grins wider. “Let’s get you a basket.”
He walks into the barn, and I follow.
Inside is cooler, giving my heated cheeks a much-needed respite. The walls are lined with wooden bins and big spools of twine. Ryder grabs a wicker basket from a wall hook, then gestures for me to follow him out a back door to the flower fields.
It’s quieter on this side, the noise of the festival fading behind us. We walk toward the tulip field, the faint swish of stems shifting against one another calling to us. The afternoon has that perfect spring quality. It’s bright but not harsh, warm but not hot, with a breeze that carries the scent of fresh earth and flowers.
Behind us, the families from the hayride are dispersing, heading toward the parking lot with their picked tulips and tired children. The farm is emptying.
We’re increasingly alone.
I chase that thought away, focusing on stringing two words together. “How have you been? You and Rhys, I mean.”
Ryder glances at me. “I meant to call you to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“For insisting on therapy.” He stops at the edge of the tulip field, turning to face me. “We had our first session with Dr. Agard on Thursday.”
“Oh, great. How did it go?”
“Better than I expected.” His expression eases, the defensive walls I’ve seen before nowhere in sight. “We talked through things I didn’t know how to bring up. She helped Rhys express his feelings. And she made me see that being honest with him is better than protecting him from the truth.”
Pride, joy, and relief swell in my chest. “I’m glad. That’s wonderful.”
“Yeah.” He nods, looking out over the rows of tulips. “We’re going back next week. It’s… it’s good. For both of us.”
I want to hug him. To tell him how brave he is for doing this, for facing his painful past. But we’re standing on his family’s farm with people still around, and he’s the father of a student, so I settle for verbal comfort.
