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Discreetly, I place my hand on my belly, rub the busy little one in my tummy, and smile. “You liked being around your daddy, huh?” The movement hits my hand like the baby is agreeing with me. “Yeah, me too.” So damn much, it feels like I am never going to recover. He was my everything. He was my future. Now, I have our baby to think about.
chapter eight
Hunter
Putting the rest of my plan in motion is bittersweet. I had always thought Gwen and I would be doing this together, but getting this shit done with Ryder isn’t half bad. He insisted on coming with me and going in on half of everything except for my hotel room. He doesn’t need one.
“You don’t even have a date,” I remind him as we get back in my truck after leaving the barbershop.
“I’m working on that.”
“You’re working on that? With someone other than Heather?” My mind screams bullshit. There’s no fucking way. This coming from the man who keeps other guys away from her by kicking their assess is suddenly going to date someone else? Like I said, bullshit.
“Hunter, come on, we’ve talked about Heather and me.” That’s not an answer.
“We have. You’re an idiot.”
“Thanks, man,” he says, chuckling.
“I mean it. You should get your head out of your ass.” I pull into my driveway. Ryder lives two doors down from us and has since we were in kindergarten. “You coming in for dinner?”
“What are we having?” he asks, grinning. Like he actually cares. The guy has never turned down a meal before.
“I don’t know. Whatever my mom makes.”
“Yeah, of course, I’m coming. My parents are in… God, I have no idea. Somewhere being doctors… I don’t know.” The Stone’s used to work at the hospital, but once Ryder turned eighteen, they went back to the Doctor’s in America. They go into rural or run-down areas and provide much-needed medical services.
We get inside, and Mom is standing in the kitchen, stirring something at the stove.
“Good, you’re home. You two can set the table.”
“Of course, Mrs. Boyd,” Ryder says.
“Ryder, I have told you a million times. Call me Tracy.”
“Tracy, sorry. I don’t know why that’s so hard for me,” he says, going to the plate cabinet. He’s as much at home here as he is at his own house.
“Mom!” Heather shouts, coming into the kitchen. She’s wrapped in a towel, having just come out of the shower, since there is still shampoo in her hair. I glance at Ryder and grab the plates out of his hands before he breaks them.
“What? I’m right here. There’s no need to shout.”
“There’s no hot water.”
“Shit, sorry, I’m doing a load of whites. I’ll stop the washer.”
“Thanks. Oh, hey, Ryder. What’s up?” Heather asks as if she just now noticed him in the room, and I choke back a laugh.
“Hey, Heather,” he replies. “I’ll, uh… get the washer, Tracy.” He disappears into the laundry room.
“Go get dressed before you give that boy a heart attack,” Mom says. At that, I do laugh because come on, these two are going to be the death of me. When Mom turns back to the stove, Heather flips me off and takes off back down the hallway. I finish setting the table before Ryder ever comes back from the laundry room. I don’t ask him what took him so long. I don’t think that I want to know.
Eventually, we sit down to dinner, baked spaghetti, a family favorite. No one talks for a solid five minutes as we are lost in our food.
“How was school today?” Dad asks.
“It was school,” I say, around a mouthful of salad.
“I see Gwen still hasn’t taken you back.” Nothing is the same without Gwen.
