“I did the one thing I promised never to do.”
“Which is?”
“I broke his trust.”
The way her face falls tells me she already knows how this ends. That I did the worst possible thing I could have done to Ryder.
A fresh wave of sobs hits me. “He won’t forgive me, will he?”
Mae pulls me back into her arms, one hand stroking my hair. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Ryder is stubborn. But if you care about each other, you can overcome anything.”
I want to believe her, but the look in Ryder’s eyes when he rode away—cold and hurt and done—tells me otherwise.
“Thank you.” I pull back, wiping my face again. “I’d better get going.”
Mae doesn’t stop me as I grab my bag and walk out of the room. Down the stairs. Through the kitchen, where Rhys’s drawings are stuck to the fridge with magnets.
I don’t let myself linger; it’s too painful.
My car is parked in the driveway. We got it this morning when Ryder went to assess the cottage repairs so I could drive to school on my own.
I toss my bag in the back seat and climb behind the wheel. I’m about to turn on the engine when I realize I’ve no idea where I’m going. My house is uninhabitable, and I’m no longer welcome at Hollow Creek.
I pull out my phone and open a booking app.
The only hotel in town with available rooms is the new luxury Rockwood Resort on the lake.
My finger hovers over the screen.
They are Ryder’s enemies. The family trying to take his land.
I don’t want to give them money or do anything that might hurt him more than I already have.
But all my things are in Blue Crescent Harbor, and I have more mandatory professional development days tomorrow through Friday. I can’t leave. And even if I could, this town is where I want to be.
I have no choice.
I book a room for a week. The confirmation email pings through a second later.
I set the phone down and grip the steering wheel, staring at the farmhouse through the windshield.
This morning I woke up in a home safe and wanted. Part of a family.
Now I’m leaving as an outsider again.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever be back.
29
FAYE
The room is obscene.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of the lake that belongs on a postcard; the sunset glides gold and amber across the water, turning the surface into liquid fire. The bed is massive, draped in linens with a thread count with more zeros than my bank account. I wince to myself. Too soon to be making jokes about the thing that ruined my life. Twice.
Everything smells expensive: citrus peel and amber mixed in a designer room spray that whispers exclusivity.
I hate it.
