Page 30 of River & Rue

As I move to open the door, Claudia stops me with a light touch on my arm.

“One last thing, Rue. A final piece of advice from an old lady. I’ve found it’s always better to risk impoliteness than to smother your voice due to a fear of judgment. In the long run, only one leads to regret.”

Some-fucking-how, I smile and nod like her words didn’t dice my insides. Then I pull open the door and suck in a draft of cool, damp air.

The golf cart waits at the bottom of the stone steps, its headlights shining through a steady drizzle.

Claudia shivers and takes a few steps back. “On second thought, I’ll have Kirk pick me up on his way back. Good night, Rue.”

Hiding my relief, I smile politely.

“Nite, Claudia. Thanks again.”

As I step outside, the drizzle becomes a downpour.

Because of course it does.

14

river

​. . .​

collision

In the aftermath of last night’s storm, the dawn air is crisp and cool. Tangy with brine, pine, and petrichor, it saws in and out of my lungs as I run a six-mile loop around the property.

I’ve done this circuit every morning for nearly a week with little effort, but today, every step is war. My first night sleeping in the studio was terrible, and the paths are muddy as hell.

Every ten or so strides, my back spasms around a pinched nerve and sizzling pain shoots down my right leg. By mile three, my quads and calves are on fire. My legs are spattered with mud to the knees, my sneakers squelching with every step. Sweat runs freely, gluing my T-shirt to my chest and spine.

A rational person would be soaking in the hot springs or on their way to get a massage. But I’m not rational—I’m in full-blown denial. My ego refuses to accept I might be too old to sleep on a floor without fucking myself up.

So like the stubborn bastard I am, I keep running. Around mile four, I stop fighting the pain and embrace it like some sort of twisted meditation. The payoff is immediate. My mind quiets, giving me a much-needed reprieve from my thoughts.

Until the subject of too many of those said thoughts comes running full tilt around the blind corner right in front of me.

Rue-the-day-I-met-her St. James.

Our eyes meet for a split second, sharing horrified awareness.

We can’t avoid a collision.

I twist on instinct, catching Rue by the waist as I do. As she slams into me, I lift her off the ground. Knees bent to maintain balance, I allow momentum to spin us across the path. I get a mouthful of her ponytail. Her chin stabs my clavicle. A flying knee misses my balls by a hairsbreadth.

But thanks to me, we’re still on our feet as we skid to a stop.

Rue’s body trembles violently, her panting breaths painting my throat. Her nails dig into my shoulders like kitten claws, and her breasts are smashed against my chest. That goddamn intoxicating scent of hers fills my heaving lungs and swims into my bloodstream.

Sadly, the distraction only lasts a few seconds. As I straighten, the consequences of my heroism hit. My lower back screams and locks. Muscles twitch angrily around my spine, and my right leg almost gives out.

When Rue pushes against my shoulders, I barely hold back a groan at the resulting flares of agony.

“What the hell, River! You almost killed me!”

I glare down at her flushed face. “You can’t be serious. You were the one running on the wrong side of the path.”

“I was not!” She squirms in my arms. “Let me go, dammit.”