Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 19570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 78(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 78(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Outside, my dad is fiddling with the bungee cords that secure our fishing boats to the back of his truck while my mom tosses gear into the cab. I know this scene by heart. I’ve lived it a hundred times. But it feels different now—like I’m watching my old life from the wrong side of the glass.
“Are you going to do it?” Ryder asks.
“Do what?”
“Introduce me to your parents.”
My pulse skips, and the air catches in my throat.
That is not what I expected him to say…
I glance out at the driveway again, at the boots my father always wears, at the pink fishing gloves my mom insists are lucky. They’re already halfway packed, about to leave for a weekend conference.
“They’re heading out. They won’t be back until Sunday.”
“Did you tell them you’re recovering from a breakup?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know.”
“So now’s not a good time?”
I shake my head. “It is.”
Without another word, he gets out of the car and walks around to my side. His fingers find mine as he helps me out. They’re warm, steady, grounding.
We cross the street, and the gravel crunches beneath our feet like it’s announcing us. My stomach twists. This is happening.
“This is Ryder,” I say when we reach them. “My boyfriend.”
My mom arches a brow. “Oh. So you were serious about being done with Nate.”
“Good,” my dad says, without missing a beat. He extends a hand toward Ryder. “What do you do for a living?”
“I operate a family business,” Ryder says, his grip firm.
“Nice.”
My mom’s eyes linger on Ryder a beat longer than necessary. She’s not wearing the tight-lipped smile she used to force around Nate. No tension in her shoulders. No pointed silences. Her expression actually softens—and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear she’s blushing.
“We look forward to getting to know you better when we return,” she says.
“Likewise,” Ryder replies smoothly.
As they pull away from the curb, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Would you like to give me a tour?” he asks.
“That would be nice.”
We end up in my bedroom, the door quietly shutting behind us. The room still smells like lavender and dust.
Afternoon sun filters through the blinds, laying golden stripes across the faded bedspread. My comforter hasn’t changed since high school. Neither has the cork board above my desk—pinned photos curling at the corners, old earbuds tangled like a nest, key fobs that no longer work.
Ryder walks slowly, his fingers grazing the edges of things—touching the past like it’s fragile.
He stops at my desk and picks up the cracked casing from my destroyed pocket blade and pepper spray. “This looks familiar.”
“I know… I used to carry this everywhere, but I shouldn’t have.”
“Why?”
“It was a tracker.”
“What?” He arches his brow.
“Kylie gave it to me for so-called protection, but she was listening in and monitoring me sometimes.”
A soft smile crosses his lips, but he doesn’t let it stay.
“She didn’t tell you she worked for the FBI?”
“You knew?”
“Of course, but she’s only a junior-level agent and it shows. She might have gotten a promotion recently, though…”
“If her tracking led to anything that happened to you—”
“Stop,” he says softly. “You have nothing to apologize for. Someone is always trying to bring me down. That’s the price of being at the top.”
His phone vibrates against the nightstand.
He doesn’t check it. Just presses a side button and sets it face-down.
Then his watch comes off. Deliberate. Slow. He sets it beside the phone like a quiet declaration:
I’m not here for anything but you.
Silence stretches between us, but it hums with electricity.
He steps closer, slow and certain, like he already knows I’ll meet him halfway. When our mouths come together, it isn’t tentative—it’s urgent. A kiss drawn from longing and silence and everything we haven’t said. His hands settle on my hips, steady and possessive, as he guides me back across the room with a patience that feels anything but calm.
By the time the backs of my knees hit the bed, I’ve forgotten how we got here. I only know I don’t want to stop.
He starts to lift me onto him, but I press a hand to his chest and shake my head.
“Not yet,” I murmur, my voice already fraying.
I push him down instead, easing him onto the mattress. He watches me through hooded eyes, breath shallow, muscles coiled. I lean over him, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his throat, then lower—down his chest, past his ribs, until I reach the line of his waistband.
When I take him in my mouth, he groans—a deep, broken sound that tells me exactly how close he’s been to losing control.
His fingers tighten in the bedding first. Then they find my hair.
But he doesn’t push. He just holds on, letting me set the pace.
I draw it out—slow, deep strokes designed to unmake him. I can feel the tension building in his body, in the way his breath catches and his hips flex just slightly under my hands. It’s all control and restraint until it isn’t. Until he’s falling apart and saying my name like he doesn’t know what language he’s speaking.