by Kristi Cook
I turn back toward Ryder and find our parents flanking him now. They’re smiling—grinning, really—their eyes gleaming almost maniacally. Ryder’s dad has his fingers clamped tightly on his son’s shoulder, holding him in place, keeping him from bolting.
“We did it!” Mama says to Laura Grace, who nods enthusiastically. They reach for me, beckoning me to join them there at the altar.
I try to back away, but I can’t. The dress is too heavy, the pressure from behind too strong.
I bolt awake, sitting up with a start. My heart is pounding, my palms damp as I clutch the bedsheets in tight fists. I shake my head, trying to clear it. Just a dream, I tell myself. But I’m rattled. I mean, c’mon . . . it doesn’t take a degree in psychology to figure out that dream.
I glance over at the far side of the bed, but it’s empty. After a quick trip to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, I head to the kitchen. My stomach’s grumbling, and I’m suddenly craving a piece of Lou’s caramel cake.
But I stop short at the sight of a piece of paper on the kitchen table with my name scrawled across the top.
Couldn’t sleep, it says in Ryder’s cramped script. Walked over to Magnolia Landing to make sure everything’s okay. Be back soon.
I stare at the note blankly, sure he’s lost his mind. It’s not safe out there. The water’s knee-deep and full of debris. And what if he comes across another moccasin? What then?
He’s going to walk a half mile across a flooded field and through woods strewn with downed trees? With cut feet and a bandaged hand?
What the hell?
I briefly consider going after him, but dismiss the idea just as quickly. I have no idea what time he left. I slept for a couple hours—he could be back any minute now. Plus, there’s two possible routes he could have taken, either following the creek or the road. And since both are flooded . . .
I shake my head in annoyance. I’m seriously pissed that he didn’t even bother consulting me before setting out. Couldn’t he have waited? Conditions’ll surely be better by tomorrow. Besides, even if Magnolia Landing is a pile of rubble, there’s not a single thing he can do about it, not now.
And what am I supposed to do? Just sit here like a good little girl, waiting for him? Worrying about him? Making his dinner?
Yeah right.
I glance over at the caramel cake sitting on a plate on the counter and notice that he somehow managed to put half of it away before he left. I pull the plate toward me and grab a fork before digging in, not even bothering to cut a piece. That’s what he gets for setting off on this . . . this . . . stupid freaking suicide mission without telling me.
I take a bite, savoring it. So good. I need to ask Lou for the recipe someday. As for Ryder Marsden, I hope a tree falls on him. I hope his cuts get infected. I hope a water moccasin gets him good. That’ll serve him right, the self-centered jerk. I mean, what is this? I bare my soul to him last night, telling him all about the film-school thing. And then he confesses the truth about the dance back in eighth grade; he says that he thought—thinks—I’m the prettiest girl in all of Magnolia Branch.
And then he gets all standoffish on me, taking off while I’m sleeping. What the hell? He needs me out there—me and Delilah both. In case he’s forgotten, I saved his life yesterday.
I’ve made a mess of the cake. I push the plate away with a sigh, licking frosting from the corner of my mouth. I need to kill some time, but how? A bath, I decide. Now, while it’s still light out.
The hot water holds out just long enough to fill my mom’s enormous tub. There’s no electricity to power the jets, but that’s okay. The lavender bath salts are plenty relaxing, making me sleepy, despite the nap.
I’m half expecting to hear Ryder come clomping through the front door any minute now. But he doesn’t—not while I’m in the tub and not after I’m out, dried off, and changed into clean clothes. With no power and thus no hair dryer, I work my hair into two braids. When I’m done, I take a good look at myself in the mirror. I’m not wearing a stitch of makeup, and with my hair in braids, well, I could easily pass for thirteen. The freckles across the bridge of my nose don’t help any. Somehow, Nan managed to escape the freckles, but not me.
Oh man . . . Nan. I’ve been doing such a good job of not thinking about her. But it’s there, in the back of my mind, hovering like a dark, ominous cloud. I grab my cell to check the time. She should be out of surgery by now, or close to it.
Please let her be okay.
I set my useless cell aside with a sigh—still no bars. I would give anything for a working phone right now. I’ve got to figure out a way to kill some time, or I’ll go crazy.
I take the dogs out to do their business and then decide to put on work gloves and see what I can salvage in the sleeping porch. I stop working when twilight comes, the sky a pale lavender, the rain reduced to a light patter now. It’s too dark for me to see what I’m doing. I have no idea how much time has passed, but I’ve managed to clear the floor of debris and pull out all the pillows and cushions, setting them aside in the family room to dry.
I peel off my gloves, dropping them in the laundry room before rounding up the dogs and cats and feeding them their dinner. Once that’s done, I help myself to a tall glass of lukewarm tea, draining it quickly and then pouring myself another. I glance out the window above the sink, watching the sky deepen to violet as the sun sinks below the horizon.
Where the hell is Ryder? It’s almost dark out, and he’s nowhere to be seen. He’s been gone for hours now—way too long. My heart accelerates, my stomach lurching uncomfortably. He should be back by now. Unless something’s happened to him, that is.
A half hour later, I’m starting to panic. An hour later, I’m near frantic, pacing back and forth by the front door. Every few minutes, I pause, gazing out at the inky darkness, hoping beyond hope to see him. Each time, I’m disappointed.
Ten more minutes pass before I decide to go after him. He must be in some sort of trouble—it’s the only explanation. I run through the list of possibilities in my mind: A snake bit him. Floodwaters swept him away. A tree fell on him, crushing his spine.
I’ve already pulled on my rain boots and jacket when I see it—a flickering light cutting through the darkness, moving toward the house. All the breath leaves my lungs in a rush.
I run out onto the front porch, trying to slow my racing heart as I peer out into the night. The light gets closer and closer, causing hope to blossom in my chest.
“Hey!” a familiar voice calls out, and I nearly weep with relief.
He’s back. Thank God.
But the relief is immediately replaced with anger. “Where the hell have you been?” I ask, my voice shaking.
He clicks off the flashlight and makes his way up the porch steps. “Didn’t you see my note?”
“Are you kidding me?” I sputter. “Do you have any idea how many hours you’ve been gone?”
“Yeah, sorry about that. The house was fine, but the pool was a mess. A tree fell through the screen, and the roof was ripped off the pool house.”
“You’re sorry? That’s all you have to say?” I take two steps toward him, fury thrumming through my veins. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? God, Ryder! I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere. I thought you were hurt, or . . . or . . .” I trail off, shaking my head. “I was about to go looking for you, out in the pitch-dark!”
He reaches for my hand, but I slap him away.
“Don’t touch me! I swear, I can’t even look at you right now.” I turn and reach for the door. But before I can fling it open, Ryder pulls me toward him, his hands circling my wrists.
“Look, I’m sorry, Jemma. It took me forever to get there, what with all the flooding and everything. And then I was trying to clean stuff up and . . . well, I guess the time just got away from me.”
I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.
“Well, you did scare me.” I manag
e to pull one hand loose, and I use it to whack him in the chest. “Idiot!”
“I’m fine, okay? I’m here.”
“I wish you weren’t!” I yell, fired up now. “I wish you were lying in a ditch somewhere!” I stumble backward, my heel catching on the porch’s floorboards.
“You don’t mean that,” Ryder says, sounding hurt.
He’s right; I don’t. But I don’t care if I hurt his feelings. I’m too angry to care. Angry and relieved and pissed off and . . . and, God, I’m so glad he’s okay. I thump his chest one more time in frustration, and then somehow my lips are on his—hungry and demanding and punishing all at once.
I hear him gasp in surprise. His mouth is hot, feverish even, as he kisses me back. The ground seems to tilt beneath my feet. I stagger back toward the door, dragging him with me without breaking the kiss. Ryder’s tongue slips between my lips, skimming over my teeth before plunging inside. And . . .
Oh. My. God. No one’s ever kissed me like this. No one. His hands and his tongue and his scent and his body are pressed against mine. . . . It’s making me light-headed, dizzy. Electricity seems to skitter across my skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. I cling to him, grabbing fistfuls of his T-shirt as he kisses me harder, deeper. I was meant to do this, I realize. I was made to kiss Ryder Marsden. Everything about it is right, like the last piece of a puzzle falling into place.
Somehow, we manage to open the front door and stumble blindly inside, past the mudroom, where we shed our boots and jackets. We pause right there in the front hall, our hands seemingly everywhere at once. I tug at his T-shirt, wanting it off, wanting to feel his skin against my fingertips. His hands skim up my sides beneath my tank top, to the edges of my bra. Shivers rack my entire body, making my knees go weak. Thank God for the wall behind me, because that’s pretty much all that’s holding me up right now.
With a groan, he abandons my mouth to trail his lips down my neck, to my shoulder, across my collarbone to the hollow between my breasts. I tangle my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, clutching him to me—thinking that I should make him stop, terrified that he will.
This is insane. I’m insane.
But you know what? That’s just fine with me. Because right now, “sane” seems way overrated.
ACT II
Scene 10
Jemma?” Ryder murmurs, his mouth hot against my skin. “Is this okay?”
I tilt my head back against the wall, catching my breath. “Yeah,” I say, panting. “It’s definitely okay. Okay?”
His forehead is resting on my shoulder now, his hands skimming my hips. “You sure? I don’t want to . . . I mean, I know things are kinda weird right now, but—”
“Just kiss me, Ryder.”
So he does.
Does he ever.
And, of course, that’s when the dang-blasted tornado siren decides to go off again.
Seriously?
Ryder steps back from me, looking a little disoriented. It takes us both a few seconds to get our bearings. “Storage room,” he says. “I’ll get the cats; you get the dogs?”
I just nod, tugging my tank top back into place. Somehow it’d gotten pushed up, bunched around my bra. And Ryder . . . At some point he must have taken off his T-shirt, because he’s shirtless now, his jeans riding low on his hips.
Focus, Jemma. The dogs. I’ve got to get the dogs.
Ryder has already taken off in the direction of the kitchen to get the cats. I force myself into action, pushing all extraneous thoughts from my head as I grab a lantern and search for Beau and Sadie.
I find them both in my parents’ room. The siren sent Beau under the bed, and Sadie’s lying on it, at the foot. I tuck her under one arm and slap my thigh, whistling for Beau. “C’mon, boy. Back to the closet. Let’s go!”
He crawls out and follows me obediently, his tail tucked between his legs. This time, I beat Ryder to the shelter. As soon as I set down my lantern and shoo the dogs down to their end of the room, I stick my head out the door and call for him. “Ryder? What’s taking you so long?”
“I’m on my way!” he yells back.
It feels like forever before he pushes open the door and ducks inside. Then I see why it took him so long. He’s somehow got the three cats tucked under one arm and the cake plate clutched in the other hand. No spare for a flashlight or lantern—so he accomplished this all in the dark.
“Here,” he says, handing off the cake to me before releasing Kirk, Spock, and Sulu into the crate and latching the door.
“Seriously, Ryder? You brought the cake?”
He shrugs. “I was hungry.”
Hmm, I guess all that kissing worked up his appetite. For cake. I’m not sure if I should be offended or not. On the plus side, he doesn’t look like he’s about to puke. So we’re making progress as far as his fear of storms goes. I guess that’s something.
“Did you happen to bring a fork?” I ask, setting the plate on the makeshift tabletop.
He produces two from his pocket, holding them up triumphantly. So we eat cake while the sirens blare. Actually, it doesn’t sound that bad out there. Still, the fact that we’re so calm—that Ryder’s so calm—should tell you how routine this is getting. As long as we don’t hear that awful freight-train sound, we’re good.
“What happened to the cake?” he asks between bites. “It looks like someone mutilated it while I was gone.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Guess I did some stress bingeing. You realize you’re not wearing a shirt, right?”
He glances down and shrugs, his cheeks flushing ever so slightly. “Sorry ’bout that.”
It might seem silly that he’s apologizing, but at Magnolia Landing, you don’t come to the table unless you’re fully dressed. It’s one of Laura Grace’s most unbendable rules—you dress for meals, even breakfast. Not that this counts as a meal, and I’m not sure you could call this plywood-on-top-of-a-crate thing a “table.” But still . . .
By the time the sirens shut off, we’ve completely cleaned the plate, even scraping off the hardened frosting with our fingers. “That was quick,” I say, setting aside the now-empty plate.
Ryder nods. “I guess we should give it a minute or two. You know, make sure it’s not coming back on.”
So we wait. Silently. Ryder can’t even meet my eyes, and all I want to do is stare at his lips. This is crazy. I mean, what do we do now—now that the sirens are off and the cake is gone?
Apparently, the answer is pretend like nothing happened. At least, that’s what we do when we leave the storm shelter five minutes later. Ryder retrieves his T-shirt from the front hall and puts it on. We walk the dogs. We make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for supper.
While we eat, we listen to the radio. That’s when we learn that our entire county is under a boil-water alert, thanks to a power outage at the water treatment facility. We’ve been drinking bottled water all along, but now we’ll have to brush our teeth with it too. Great.
We also learn that a tornado touched down on campus over at the university. No injuries have been reported, but a couple buildings are heavily damaged.
And, apparently, our road isn’t the only one washed out. There’s been widespread flash-flooding. The mandatory curfew is still in effect, so we couldn’t go anywhere even if our cars weren’t crushed.
After we finish our sandwiches, we play another game of Scrabble. This time, Ryder wins. Honestly, my head’s just not in it. Besides, it’s late. I’m tired.
“You ready for bed?” Ryder asks, as if he’s read my mind.
I push aside the game board. “Yeah. You?”
“Definitely.” He stretches, reaching toward the ceiling—exposing a swath of tanned skin between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans. “Sounds like the storm will have moved out by morning. We’re going to have a lot of cleanup to do.”
I nod. “I guess we should take the dogs out again first.”
We do—quickly. It’s still raining, just a drizzle now.
But I feel like I’m going to start sprouting fuzzy green moss any minute now. Everything feels damp—my skin, my clothes, the furniture. It’s permeated everything. I mean, Mississippi’s pretty humid in general, but right now I’m afraid I’ll never feel dry again.
I grab one of the lanterns we’ve left in the mudroom and head toward my parents’ room, expecting Ryder to follow.
But he pauses at the bottom of the stairs. “I guess I should . . . you know. The guestroom. Should be safe upstairs now.”
I just stare at him, trying to decide if he’s serious. But then he reaches for the banister, and I realize he is. “You don’t have to,” I say, my cheeks flushing hotly. “I mean . . . I’m fine with you down here. With me.”
I can’t believe I just said that. But, jeez, everything’s so awkward now.
“You sure?” he asks, taking a step toward me.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah, I’m . . . you know, getting used to having you around. Anyway,” I say breezily, “we might get some more severe stuff tonight. Probably shouldn’t take any chances.”
Oh my God, I’m practically begging him to stay with me. What is wrong with me?
“You’re probably right,” Ryder says, relenting.
I try to think of something clever to say, but come up blank. So I turn and stalk off to my parents’ room instead.
Ryder finds me in the bathroom, brushing my teeth with bottled water. He stands in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame, watching me. Our gazes meet in the mirror—which, of course, makes gooseflesh rise on my skin. I spit in the sink and take a swig of water to rinse.
“Jem?”
I turn, the marble countertop digging into my back. He moves toward me, closing the distance between us. I sway slightly on my feet as he reaches for me, his dark eyes filled with heat. His gaze sweeps across my face, warming my skin, making my breath catch in my throat.
Oh man. “Yeah?”
“I have to ask you something,” he says.
