I have a little pang an hour later when I say goodbye to Marshall, and then again as we pull away from the cottage and onto the main road that will take us to the highway. The road takes us through Wild Rose Point’s downtown area, where we pass a collection of cute and quaint shops, restaurants, and other businesses. I can’t help but wince when I see a bridal shop called Seaside Vows, but even that feeling settles when I note the casual elegance of the main street.
Of all the places I could have ended up, this town’s actually somewhere I wouldn’t mind visiting. There’s an air to the townthat’s not necessarily sleepy, but definitely relaxed. Not trying too hard. Not concerned with brand names or appearances. It’s pretty without being showy. Comfortable in its own skin in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
Ryan’s been quiet this morning. Or is this his normal? I met the guy only two days ago, and yet, there’s something about the silence in the car that feels comfortable.
“Need anything before we get on the highway?” he asks as we approach the stop sign at the end of the strip.
“All good,” I say.
Ten minutes outside of town, we round a bend and come to an abrupt stop in front of a series of barricades blocking the road in both directions. It must have just been set up, as there are only a dozen or so vehicles ahead of us, a few of which are executing three-point turns.
Three emergency vehicles are parked, and one of the police officers is speaking to the owner of the car stopped ahead of us.
I look over to see Ryan craning his neck to look down the way. “Oh boy,” he said. “This doesn’t look good.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Not sure, but whenever they close the roads around here, it’s not a ten-minute fix.”
The officer approaches the car just as Ryan flicks on the four-ways.
“Hey there,” the man says, leaning in and peering past Ryan to me. “Sorry, but the road’s closed. Both lanes are covered ahead, and the slopes above are unstable.”
“What happened?” Ryan asks, looking toward the cluster of emergency vehicles with flashing lights in the distance.
“Big slide near Arch Cape after that storm last night. We’ve got geos out there now, but it’s a nasty one. They’re saying it might be up to three days.”
“Three days?” Ryan repeats. “Are you serious? We need to get to Seattle. Any suggestions?”
“Backtracking onto 76 is your only option, but it’s crawling. It’ll add seven, maybe eight hours. Honestly? Best bet is to head home and try again tomorrow. Hopefully everything’s cleared by then.”
Ryan’s jaw tightens. This clearly isn’t good news to him. And the tiny flicker of relief I feel that I can avoid facing Jack for a little longer dies the moment I remember what that means for me. More time with none of my things. Nowhere to go.
“Alright. Thanks, man,” Ryan says before rolling up the window. He executes a three-point turn just as another car pulls up behind us.
We drive in silence for a few beats before I finally exhale. “Honestly, just leave me at the town bus shelter or something. I’ll figure something out.”
“You think I’m going to dump you somewhere?” Ryan cuts me a sideways look, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Listen. We’ll go into town, get you a few things. I’ve got an old iPhone at my place. We’ll grab a SIM card at the convenience store so you have a way to contact people without relying on me. You can stay in my guest room until the road clears. If you want.”
“Only if you’ll let me transfer you money from my bank account,” I say immediately. I am not taking on more charity. Once this nightmare is over, I’m never accepting a penny from anyone ever again.
The prenup flashes in my mind, twenty-plus million dollars, a stake in a vacation property, a cushy allowance if kids came into the picture.A generous deal,my lawyer called it. I’d signed it, even though the idea of being handed money I didn’t earn felt foreign. But, like everything else with Jack, I’d been coaxed along until my doubts felt unreasonable.
“It’s not necessary,” Ryan says.
“I insist. Unless there’s a Chase here. I can try getting a replacement debit card.” Although with no ID, that seems like an impossibility.
He turns back onto the town’s main strip, with its quaint storefronts, weathered cedar shingles, flower boxes under windows. “No Chase, but there’s an ATM on the corner. If it makes you feel better to transfer me something later, I’ll take out cash for you.”
I study his face. “Why do you trust me? You don’t even know me. I could disappear and never pay you back.”
“I’ll take solace knowing Addison and Jill made a few sales,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out into the cool air.
“Addison and Jill?”
“They own Dandelion.” He nods toward a storefront ahead with soft lighting and mannequins wearing outfits not far from what I’d normally wear. “I’ll be right back.”
From the passenger seat, I watch him at the exterior ATM. With his back turned, I can study him without feeling creepy. His broad shoulders form a clean V, and his jeans hang just right off his trim waist. He might be a strange hermit, but he looks like he walked out of a menswear campaign.
