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‘And this is to transport your arty stuff to wherever you want to paint.’ Ryan pulls forward a mini trailer and hooks it to the back.
Oh my God. He’s thought of everything. ‘No one’s ever done anything so nice for me.’ I look at Ryan, now unbothered about the state of my face and him seeing it. I want him to know how much this means to me, and it means the absolute world. This simple, thoughtful thing. Ryan didn’t just go and buy me a new bike. He knew how much I loved this one, so he repaired it. He and Alex spent hours doing this.
‘Not even last night?’ Ryan says, and I laugh, nudging him in the side with my shoulder. He wraps an arm around me and pulls me in. ‘I’m glad you love it.’
‘I more than love it. Can I take it with me?’
‘Afraid not.’ He kisses my head and walks me back to the cabin. ‘Alex wants all the glory. And she’s still got to fix your new bell on.’
I look back, smiling at my fancy new bike. ‘So I should look surprised?’
‘Yes, very surprised.’ He motions to the bedroom. ‘Surely your new bike deserves some kind of reward.’
How can I refuse? Not that I would, bike or no bike. I swivel on my bare feet and sashay into his room. ‘Will Chunky Monkey be joining us?’
‘No, you’re all mine.’ He stalks after me and tackles me down to the bed. ‘And I, Hannah Bright, am all yours.’ And he kisses me.
As Ryan pulls up outside my shop, he cranes his neck, leaning forward in his seat to look up at my shop front. His position gives me the perfect view of his stretched throat. He’s in black running shorts and a T-shirt, his hair still damp from our shower, and his scruff a bit scruffier from a missed shave. Because we ran out of time. I grin to myself as I admire him. His voice is rough. His hands large. His jaw sharp. His voice deep. So unassuming and gentle.
I don’t realize I’m more or less gawking at him until he turns toward me in his seat. I blink and take the handle of the door. ‘Thank you for bringing me home.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘And thank you for making my bike pretty.’
‘Welcome.’
‘And for last night.’
‘Welcome again.’
‘And—’
‘Hannah.’ He laughs lightly. ‘I get it. You’re thankful.’ Rolling his eyes, he hands me his mobile phone. ‘Put your number in.’
I grin as I do, calling myself so I have his, too, before handing it back to him. He jumps out and rounds the truck, collecting me by my hand. I stare down at our woven fingers as he leads me to the door, just so overcome by the rightness of his touch. How he handles me. It’s sometimes rough, but I don’t ever feel angry vibes. I don’t lose my breath with fear. I lose it with something else. For the first time in my life, I like the feel of a man’s hands on me. Ryan’s hands.
When we reach the door, he motions to the lock, and I quickly slip my hand into the pocket of my dress to retrieve my keys. But they’re not there. I pause, thinking. I remember slipping them in my pocket on the way to the shop last night. So where . . .
Oh no. I look up at him, my eyes full of apologies. I’ve already waylaid him this morning, not that it’s my fault, of course. He was the one who couldn’t keep his hands off me. Now he’s going to have to drive all the way back to his cabin so I can find my keys.
I see the thought click in his mind, and he closes his eyes. But he smiles. ‘Where are they?’
‘They were in my pocket.’ I could kick myself. I seriously need to get myself a handbag. But I don’t like handbags. Any accessories, in fact. To me, they symbolize restraint. Control. They symbolize apologies.
‘Were?’ Ryan questions.
‘Well, they were until you came over all caveman and threw me over your shoulder last night. Now . . .’ I shrug.
‘So basically, they could be anywhere in the woods?’ he says, looking up at the windows of my apartment. Basically, yes. Which means they’re probably gone forever.
‘Is there a locksmith nearby?’ I ask in vain, knowing it’s a stupid question.
‘Yeah.’
‘There is?’ My high-pitched voice is a little surprised, a lot relieved.
He takes hold of the drainpipe to the right of my door and gives it a little tug. ‘Me.’ His feet leave the ground, and he hauls himself up the pipe a good three feet, taking the metal with both hands. And I watch in utter astonishment, and maybe awe, as he shimmies up the drainpipe, his trainers wedged into the wall, his arms at full length as he leans back. This explains Alex’s fondness for climbing things. It also brings on an onslaught of mental images. They’re of Ryan. Armed. Stalking the enemy. My suspicions are only increasing the more I get to know him. He was definitely a spy or something equally thrilling. He might not ever admit it to me – he’s probably had to sign a secrecy act or something – but I know. I just . . . know.
