“And believing Ivy will leave you if you take a chance.” Wyatt leveled him with a look.
Ryder pushed back from the table. “You two don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t we?” Caleb’s tone was mild, which made it cut deeper. “Ivy isn’t Miranda. And Ellie deserves to see you happy.”
“I am happy,” Ryder bit out.
Admitting otherwise would mean opening a door he’d spent years bolting shut.
Caleb and Wyatt stared at him in silence. The lie hung in the air between them.
Wyatt sighed. “Can’t remember the last time you looked at a woman like that.”
“And more to the point,” Caleb added, leaning back on two chair legs, “can’t remember the last time someone looked at you like that. She’s already halfway gone on you, and you’re sitting here pretending it doesn’t matter.”
Ryder scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “You’re both insane.”
“Nope. Just not blind.” Caleb let his chair thump down. “I knew you were sunk the second she walked in. Same look you had when you saw your first snowmobile. Except this time, you’re not twelve and drooling on the handlebars.”
Wyatt snorted. “Though you’re doing a decent impression.”
Ryder shot them both a glare.
“We’ve known you your whole life, Ryder.” Wyatt tipped his head, expression neutral. “You can hide behind duty all you want, but not from us. Not when it’s written all over you.”
“And right now, Sarah’s in the kitchen alone with her.” Caleb smirked. “Probably grilling her with Mom’s list of questions. And ‘are you going to break my brother’s heart?’ is definitely on the menu.”
“Might want to rescue her,” Wyatt said.
He glanced at the door. Sarah interrogating Ivy unsupervised with questions about him—about them—sent him surging to his feet.
He stalked toward the kitchen. His brothers’ satisfied expressions trailed after him, irritating as hell.
“This conversation isn’t over,” he warned.
“It is for now,” Wyatt replied smoothly. “Go save your girl.”
He didn’t look back.
She’s not my girl.
But his protest rang hollow. The truth pushed through anyway.
I want her to be.
20
Ryder pushedthrough the kitchen door, braced for damage control. He pictured Sarah leaning across the counter, grilling Ivy about birthright titles and offshore contracts.
Sarah’s voice washed over him. “You just smoosh the mustard rub onto the beef?—”
The door banged shut behind him, and they both pivoted to look.
Ivy was at the sink, sleeves pushed back, rinsing plates under the tap. Sarah was beside her with a towel in hand, sliding a dish into the cupboard. She arched an eyebrow. “You okay, little brother? You’ve got that rescue-face on.”
“Uh…” His mouth went dry. “Roast beef, huh?”
Ivy tilted her head, a curve of amusement tugging at her lips. “Apparently, it’s your mother’s secret recipe.”
