by K. Street
“I thought maybe you had a wife or at least a girlfriend. I mean, Zeke is what, five?”
“He’ll be six in December.”
“I thought you’d used me. That you’d cheated.”
His hand fell away. “You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”
“I don’t really know you. I made so many assumptions.”
“You know what they say about assuming, don’t you?”
I recalled my conversation with Papa B, standing on Harriett’s doorstep a week ago, and a light laugh slipped from my lips. “So I’ve heard.”
“I’m Zeke’s legal guardian, not his father. And I might be a lot of things, Pres, but a cheater isn’t one of them.”
Humiliation washed over me.
“I feel like the world’s biggest ass right now.”
Seven
Ryder
Shame swirled in Presley’s brown eyes.
Our conversation had grown heavy. Too heavy.
I needed to break up some of the tension between us.
“Turn around for me.”
Her brows drew together. “What?”
“Just do it.”
She pivoted to face the opposite direction.
I took the opportunity to appreciate her ass. The round shape filled out the back of the jumpsuit thing she wore quite nicely.
Once I looked my fill, I said, “You can turn back around now.”
Presley gave me an incredulous look. “What was that about?”
“While you might feel like the world’s biggest ass,” I said, using her words, “you certainly do not have the world’s biggest ass. In fact, your ass is quite perfect. From what I can tell.” I smirked. “Though I might need a closer look.”
Presley laughed and playfully pushed against my chest. “I’m trying to apologize here.”
“It isn’t necessary.”
She dropped her gaze. “I judged you so harshly.”
“I’d have done the same in your shoes.”
“I’m sorry,” Presley whispered. Her eyes met mine, and I saw the sincerity of her words. “I’m sorry for your loss and for thinking the worst.”
“It’s all right.”
I bent to retrieve our shoes, passing Presley hers, and we started walking again.
After a few minutes, Presley asked, “How many years are there between you and Zeke?”
“Twenty-two.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw her mouth gape. “Wow.”
“Believe me, nobody was more surprised than me. Except for my parents.” I chuckled. “Mom was eighteen when she got pregnant with me. They tied the knot before I was born. My parents spent years trying to have another baby before they gave up. When Mom was thirty-nine, she got pregnant with Zeke.”
“I bet that was quite the shock.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Were your parents high school sweethearts?”
“Childhood sweethearts actually.”
“That’s really sweet.”
We strayed a little farther before I grasped her elbow, turning her back in the direction we had come.
An easy quiet settled between us, both of us seemingly lost in our own thoughts.
Our hands occasionally brushed. Each time they did, the need to pull her closer grew, but I refrained.
When we made it back to the truck, we both slipped our shoes back on before I opened her door.
My gaze settled on Presley’s backside as she climbed inside.
After she buckled her seat belt, I shut the door, and then I went around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel.
Our gazes met across the cab of the truck.
“Are you hungry?”
“Famished.”
She wasn’t the only one.
My stare fell to her lips. It took everything in me not to haul her into my arms and lose myself in her.
For the last week, my thoughts had been drifting to Presley more and more. I dreamed of the night we’d spent together.
It was more than a dream.
It was a memory, and I recalled every detail.
Before the phone call.
Before the foundation of my entire world was rocked to its core.
Before the course of my life changed forever.
She was the last good thing before it all went to shit.
“Ryder?”
I forced my eyes back to hers.
“Dinner. Right. Do you like Italian?”
“It’s my favorite.”
An idea hit me. I just hoped Presley was down with it.
There is only one way to find out.
Eight
Presley
“So, this is how you woo all the girls?” I teased, taking in my surroundings.
Cookie-cutter buildings dotted the industrial park. Each of them was painted the same shade of beige with a single glass-paned aluminum door and an offset steel roll-up door coated in utility gray.
Ryder sent his dimpled grin my way. “Just you.” His face turned serious. “I’ve never brought a woman here. You’re the first.”
“Ha,” I scoffed my disbelief.
“It’s true.”
The confession sent a rush of warmth spreading through me.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
It was my turn to blush. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
After Ryder unlocked the door of his shop, he flicked on the light and motioned for me to enter.
I stepped inside the small, sparsely decorated interior that looked somewhere between an office and a crash pad.
A black leather chair was perched behind a shiny, aged mahogany desk. A few sketchpads were neatly stacked in the center, adjacent to a chipped coffee mug filled with perfectly sharpened pencils. A well-worn plaid couch with a quilt draped over the back sat against the wall opposite the desk with a two-drawer metal filing cabinet on one end, which doubled as a makeshift end table.
“Come on. I’ll show you where the magic happens.”
He led me down a short hallway, past a restroom, and to another door. Once he opened it, he flipped the lights, and we stepped inside the warehouse space.
I took in the vast room and gasped when my eyes landed on a life-size, three-dimensional sculpture of Mary Poppins, made solely from recycled metal.
“Ryder. She’s”—dozens of adjectives filled my head, none of them able to adequately express the masterpiece in front of me—“breathtaking.”
Pride shone in his eyes. “Thanks.”
I pointed to Mary. “May I?”
“Of course.”
I moved closer, captivated by the piece of art.
The right arm extended high above her head, holding an open umbrella. Unable to resist, I glimpsed the underside of the umbrella.
Pointing my index finger, I glanced back at Ryder and then asked, “Are those dipsticks?”
“They are.” He looked a little surprised.
“I do know what a dipstick is. I have checked my oil before.”
“Do you know how to change it too?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Who taught you? Your dad?”
Laughter burst out of me. “My dad? That would be a hard no. The man doesn’t get his hands dirty. Not unless they’re covered in surgical gloves and plunged inside someone’s chest cavity. Papa B taught me many years ago. Long before I was old enough to drive.”
Not wanting to delve into the subject of my parents, I turned my attention back to Ryder’s masterpiece.
The placement of the left arm was positioned at her hip, slightly jutting out. Hand curved and fingers slightly curled. The sculpture was affixed to a large, thick, flat piece of wood.
My focus shifted from the creation to its creator. “She’s amazing.”
“I finished the carpet bag last night”—he gestured to the worktable—“which I’ll weld into her open hand. The
n, I just have to make the hat, and she’ll be done.”
“Shut up. You’re making a hat too?”
“Yep.”
I practically squealed in delight. “This is by far one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, I’m glad you approve.”
A horn blared from outside, bringing our conversation to a halt.
“I’ll be right back.”
Ryder moved toward the metal roll-up door and pulled a set of keys from his pocket.
“You might want to plug your ears,” he warned, unlocking the door.
I took his advice and brought my fingers to my ears.
The metal chain loudly clicked and clanged as Ryder shoved up on the door. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and walked out to meet the delivery driver. Upon his return, he set the take-out bags on his worktable.
“Can I do anything to help?”
“There’s a blanket on the couch in the office. Do you mind grabbing it?”
“Not at all.”
I headed into the office. Just as my hand touched the quilt, I heard the echo of the steel door being lowered.
I clutched the thick cover to my chest and stepped back into the warehouse. My stomach rumbled as the scent of oregano and basil hit my nose.
“It smells wonderful,” I commented.
“Rocco’s has the best Italian in Boca.” Ryder took the cover from me and spread it out on the concrete floor. “Have a seat.”
I lowered myself onto the pallet and sat crisscross.
He snagged the food from the table and set it down before he settled next to me.
The paper bags seemed bottomless as he took out one dish after another.
Appetizers. Pasta. Wine. Dessert.
He had thought of everything. Including cloth napkins and actual wineglasses.
“Try this.”
I took the fried ravioli he held out to me and popped it into my mouth. “Mmm.”
“Good, right?”
“So good.”
I took in the feast. The blanket. His art.
“Are you sure this isn’t how you woo the ladies?”
“Am I wooing you?” His dimpled grin made my belly swoop.
Instead of answering him, I popped another ravioli into my mouth, letting the flavors burst on my tongue. The combination of the crispy pasta and the warm ricotta had my eyes closing and a moan falling from my lips.
When my eyes fluttered open, I found Ryder’s intense stare fixed on my mouth.
I fought the magnetic pull. The desire to lean in closer. Close enough that our lips would touch.
I shifted my gaze, breaking the spell.
He poured me a glass of red wine but refrained from pouring one for himself.
Our fingers brushed as I took the glass from him.
“You and Rocco must be good friends.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Um, I don’t know. Cloth napkins and real wineglasses.”
He grinned. “You’re right. Rocco and I are good friends. But the wine is all you. Since I’m driving.”
“Creative Casanova,” I mumbled. Then, I took a sip.
“Pardon?”
“I said, you’re a creative Casanova.”
Amusement sparked in his eyes. “Creative? Yes. Casanova? Hardly. Not anymore anyway.”
“You’re a reformed playboy, then?” I kept my tone light and teasing.
“The truth? Had things turned out … differently the night of the wedding, we might have shared breakfast the next morning. Possibly gone another round or two, but it would have ended there. Even if you didn’t live in New York at the time. Back then, I didn’t do strings or relationships. I didn’t want to be tied down.”
He pried the lids from the lasagna and carbonara and then passed me a fork.
We didn’t bother with plates.
“And now?” I heard myself ask before I thought better of it.
I focused on twining the pasta around the tines of my fork, not completely sure I wanted to hear his answer.
“I have Zeke. Between raising him, working, and looking after Mimi, I don’t have a whole lot of time left over for anyone else. Even if I did, I’m the one with strings.”
I chewed and swallowed. Then, I reached for my wine. After I took a sip, my eyes met Ryder’s. “Some women might see it that way, but the right woman won’t.”
He opened his mouth and then closed it just as quickly when his phone rang. Ryder excused himself to say good night to Zeke.
When he returned, he settled beside me once more and said, “Tell me about you.”
I dabbed my lips with my napkin. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Tell me everything.”
So, I did.
Well, almost everything. I continued to avoid the topic of my parents.
Our conversation never lagged. It was like the more we found out about each other, the more we wanted to know.
We ate. I drank.
After dessert was eaten and his shop was put back to rights, he drove me home and escorted me to the front door.
Standing there on my front porch, the moonlight illuminating our faces, I didn’t want the night to end.
The warm summer breeze sent a whisp of hair blowing across my cheek.
Ryder lifted his hand, tucking the dark lock behind my ear. He swept his calloused thumb along my cheek.
All the tiny flecks of gold glinting in his olive-green eyes held me prisoner.
His stare shifted to my lips.
“Presley,” he whispered my name like a prayer of thanksgiving and a petition for mercy.
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Too afraid to break the moment.
Kiss me, I silently begged.
He inched closer. His warm breath ghosted over my skin.
Heat pooled between my legs.
My lids fluttered shut.
Ryder’s stubble grazed my cheek before his smooth lips caressed my temple. Lingering longer than necessary.
“Good night, sweetness.”
He stepped back, putting space between us. Denying me the kind of kiss I wholly wanted.
“Good night.” I somehow managed to keep embarrassment from bleeding into my tone.
“Go on.” He nodded toward the door. “I want to make sure you’re safely inside.”
I fumbled in my purse for the keys and tried like hell to keep my fingers from trembling as I unlocked the door. Then, I stepped over the threshold and flipped on the living room lights before I turned back to him. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”
“I can’t.”
Can’t. There it is again.
He seemed awfully fond of the word.
This chemistry between us, the irrefutable pull I felt wasn’t one-sided. I saw it in the intense way he looked at me. For whatever reason, he refused to act on it.
And me?
I was too afraid. Because deep down, I was still that girl. The one plagued with doubt. Never quite measuring up. The one too chickenshit to take what I wanted.
“Well, thank you for a lovely evening.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“Drive safe.”
Drive safe?
I inwardly cringed.
He lives in the same neighborhood, genius.
I stepped inside and attempted to close the door, only it wouldn’t shut. My gaze shifted downward to see Ryder’s foot in the doorjamb.
“Pres?”
I forced a smile before I eased the door back open.
His eyes were darker than they had been moments ago.
“Yeah?”
His stare bore into mine as he held my face between his palms. “You deserve more.”
The air around us grew heavy.
Emotion gripped my throat.
Seconds passed.
Each of us was rooted in place until the weight of our unspoken words became too much.
Ryder lowered his hands from my face. Lonelines
s crept in at the loss of his touch.
“I’ll call you.”
“Okay,” I agreed, knowing I wouldn’t hold him to it.
Without another word, I closed the door and clicked the lock into place. Then, I dropped my keys back into my purse.
“You deserve more.”
Ryder’s words spun in my mind like a hamster’s wheel.
I leaned my forehead against the smooth wood while I grasped the doorknob with one hand and pressed the flattened palm of my other to the cool surface.
“You deserve more.”
More what?
More than him?
More than another one-night stand?
Maybe I did deserve more, but so did he.
Nine
Ryder
I stood on Presley’s porch with my palm flat against the piece of wood that separated us.
What I had told her was true.
She deserved more.
I had seen the undeniable hunger in her gaze. Felt the quickening of her pulse when I touched her.
Had I completely crossed the threshold into her space, I would’ve had her beneath me in a matter of seconds.
History would have repeated itself. She was worth so much more.
Underneath the desire swimming in the soulful depths of her brown eyes, I had seen the deep-seated longing for something I couldn’t give her.
Not yet anyway.
I gathered my resolve, lifted my palm from her door, and compelled my feet to move. With one last long look over my shoulder, I got into my truck and drove home.
Sunlight filled my bedroom, nearly blinding me.
Sleep had not come easily last night. My mind had been too consumed with thoughts of Presley and how badly I wanted her.
But it was more than that, and therein lay the problem.
I eyed the digital clock on my nightstand and dragged myself from bed.
After I took Turtle for a walk and had a quick shower, I drove over to Mimi’s to pick up Zeke from his sleepover.
“So, how did it go?” Mimi asked as soon as she opened the door.
“Well, hello to you too, Mimi.”
“Get yourself in here, boy, and give me the scoop.”
I stepped inside, laughing at her theatrics. “I was a perfect gentleman.”
