He turns and goes. I stay. I inhale the perfume of the tulips, letting it ground me as I track his retreating form across the yard.
Some women collect flowers. I collect poor decisions with broad shoulders and a fine ass currently walking away in perfect-fit Wranglers.
18
RYDER
The sun has barely cracked the horizon when I pull into the school parking lot twenty minutes before the bus is scheduled to leave. Eager much?
Rhys, too. He bounces in the back seat like he’s had three bowls of sugar for breakfast instead of his banana oatmeal. This morning, I woke up earlier than usual. I poured the nervous energy into getting ahead before I take two days off I don’t have spare. But Remy and Beck have assured me they can cover for me. Not that I gave them much of a choice. I committed to this trip on the fly without asking anyone.
The parking lot is nearly empty with just three vehicles lined up at the front: a white bus idling near the main entrance, a silver sedan I don’t recognize, and Faye’s BMW.
She beat me here.
My palms stick to the steering wheel as I pull into a spot. I drag my hands down my jeans to dry them.
“Dad, the bus!” Rhys unbuckles his seatbelt before I’ve even killed the engine, already grabbing for the door handle.
“Hold on, buddy.” I push the kids lock. “We don’t run in parking lots, remember? A car could dart out from anywhere; you have to be careful.”
I turn to him and wait until he gives me a nod back.
I unlock his door and get out, stalling as I grab our overnight bags from the back of the truck. My pulse kicks like I’ve jogged to the school instead of driving here. I grip the edge of the trunk, waiting for my heartbeat to even out before I face her.
“Come on, Dad.”
I sigh and follow him. We find Faye standing behind the bus with Bettany Harlow, the two women bundled against the early morning chill. Bettany is wearing a shocking pink pantsuit that’s almost offensive to the eye.
And Faye is in fitted jeans.
I haven’t seen her in denim since the night we danced together. They are practical, trip-at-the-park pants, but damn if my brain doesn’t misfire, forgetting what I volunteered for. Because I know the feel of that denim beneath my palms. The curve of her hips against my hands. The slow resistance when I guided her, the subtle give that told me she was following my lead even while she still hadn’t forgiven me. The memory returns in fragments: pressure, warmth, the silent argument between our bodies that neither of us won.
And her hair. Today she’s pulled it up in a high ponytail that is worse for my nerves than any style so far. My fingers itch to wrap around it, to tug on it, to find out if it’s as soft as it looks.
I’m thirty-two years old. A father. A business owner. And I want to pull a girl’s ponytail like I’m back in elementary school myself.
Maturity is overrated.
Rhys closes the distance, running. I swing our overnight bags over one shoulder and follow at a more reasonable pace, despite everything in me wanting to sprint along.
Act like a functional adult. Even if she makes you feel fifteen years younger. Especially because she makes you feel that way.
Bettany spots me first. “Ryder! Morning!” Her voice carries across the parking lot, bright and artificially cheerful for this ungodly hour. “You came early.”
“I wanted to beat the rush.”
Faye turns at the sound of my voice. Her lips part on an intake of breath as our eyes meet, and her cheeks flush pink despite the cool morning air. The blush spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her fleece.
I want to follow the pattern of reddening skin with my mouth. Trace it with my tongue. Graze it with my teeth. Find out how far down it goes.
Instead, I nod. “Morning, Miss Rose.”
“Mr. Evans.” Her voice is level, but she fidgets with the zipper of her jacket. “Eager to chaperone?”
“Rhys was too excited to sleep.” Same as me, but she doesn’t need to know I’ve been awake since four, unable to stop thinking about spending two days with her. Forty-eight hours of pretending I’m not completely gone for her.
“I couldn’t wait either.” Faye smiles at Rhys.
