Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
He stepped around me and started toward the house, long strides eating up the ground like he already owned the place.
“Where are you going?” I asked, following a few steps behind.
“Back door don’t latch right. I’ll fix it.”
“How do you even know that?”
He paused at the corner of the porch but didn’t turn around. “Been keepin' her standing.” A long beat passed. “For you.”
My breath caught as it all slid into place. He’d been the one keeping things clean and taking care of this place. But why?
I didn't know what the hell to say, so I stayed quiet as I watched him disappear. The lowering sun stretched his shadow across the dry pasture until it reached my boots, dark and claiming. I got my room organized, put my clothes in the dresser, cleaned off the counters, and threw away things I knew I wouldn’t want. By the time I walked back to the house, Ryder was nowhere to be found, and the back door latch was already fixed.
I opened the door with a shaky hand and stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of all of this. That’s when I saw a coffee cup sitting on the small dining room table, steam still curling from it. A torn slip of paper sat beside the cup, and written in bold black marker were four simple words that made something warm and dangerous uncurl low in my belly.
You still take it sweet.
3
The sound of hammering pulled me from sleep just after seven the next morning.
I stared at the cracked ceiling, disoriented for a moment until the smell of old wood and stale smoke reminded me where I was. Rootstown Creek. The ranch that had never truly felt like home.
The hammer struck again. Three hard, steady blows followed by the scrape of lumber being dragged across the porch.
I threw back the thin blanket and reached for the jeans I’d left folded over the desk chair. I’d slept in nothing but an old T-shirt because unpacking more than the bare minimum would have made this stay feel permanent.
And I wasn’t staying. No matter what Ryder Kane seemed to think.
I twisted my hair into a knot as I crossed the hall. Sunlight poured through the windows I’d left open overnight, already warming the house. On the way downstairs, I caught myself wondering about the coffee cup I’d found on the dining room table yesterday. I should have thrown it away. Instead, I’d rinsed it out, shoved it in the back of the cupboard, and tossed the scrap of paper away like it was some kind of reluctant secret.
I didn’t want to examine what that said about me.
Another strike rattled the front wall, and I yanked the door open.
Ryder stood at the far end of the porch, his back to me, replacing a rotted support beneath the railing. Faded jeans hugged his powerful legs. A gray shirt clung to his back, already darkened with sweat between his shoulder blades. His black cowboy hat rested on a post beside him, his dark hair damp at the ends.
A leather tool belt hung low on his hips, and because he looked like he belonged there, that unsettled me more than it should have.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Ryder glanced over one broad shoulder, and immediately, his gaze moved over me, his eyes on my bare feet, up my jeans, along my thin shirt, and finally stopping at my face.
“Fixin’ your porch,” he said, his voice so low and rough that it rippled across my bare skin, causing me to shiver.
“I can see that.” I crossed my arms, trying to hide my hardening nipples.
“Then why’d you ask?”
I stepped outside, the screen swinging shut behind me, only to hit me in the ass because I hadn’t stepped out far enough. I slid on the rough wood and yelped when a splinter caught the bottom of my heel.
Ryder dropped the hammer and crossed the distance in three quiet strides, moving with the calm certainty of a man who had spent his life handling spooked horses and broken things.
“Hold still,” he said.
“It’s just a splinter.”
“I know what it is.”
He crouched in front of me and wrapped one big hand around my ankle. The contact was unexpectedly warm. I pressed my palm behind me against the house to balance myself while Ryder turned my foot into the light. His scarred fingers were firm but careful as he pulled a pocketknife from the back of his jeans.
My body tensed, and Ryder looked up. “You think I’m gonna cut you?”
“No.”
“You went stiff.”
“You pulled a knife while holding my foot.”
He held my gaze for a long second. “I ain’t ever hurt you, Lila.”
The words landed heavier than they should have, and I was the one to look away first.
Ryder used the tip of the blade to lift the splinter free. He was careful, quite gentle, for hands that looked capable of breaking bone.