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I slide from his lap onto the cushion, keeping my legs draped over his, my hand gripping his shoulder as though his presence can steady the past.
“Tell me,” he says.
I sigh, letting go of his shoulder and interlocking my fingers. I can feel the pressure building up inside of me, but not the same sort that built within me in the library. This is like steam rising inside a pot, knocking against the lid, and I’m afraid the explosion is going to send him running away from me as fast as he can.
“You probably noticed that my mom is pretty old,” I murmur. “She turned sixty-one this year. Anyway, when I was a kid, I never knew my dad. Mom always just said he didn’t want to be a father, and she’d never give me any more information when I asked.”
If he spoke, he might break the spell of this confession. But he just gazes at me patiently, waiting for me to speak, his expression calm and accepting.
“When I was older – maybe thirteen – she finally told me the truth. And it shattered me, Ryland. It made it so I could never trust anybody ever again. It made it so I had to question everybody I met, all the damn time. Because if I didn’t, then maybe they’d be doing the same to me.”
“What did he do?” Ryland asks, a growl forming beneath his voice.
I was wrong before.
I thought speaking would break the spell.
But when I hear the protective vibrations in the tone of his voice, I know that he’ll do anything to make me feel safe again.
I think that’s what I hear, anyway, but how can I ever be sure?
Can one person ever really know another?
The question should be absurd when I’ve known this man for less than twenty-four hours.
“Rosie,” he growls, pulling me from my thoughts.
“He tricked her,” I say. “She was forty-one when they met and he was twenty-three. They met at a club and they hit it off. Mom thought she was a little old for him, but, hey, he didn’t seem to mind. They went home and they—Well, there’s no need to go into that, is there? He left the morning after and that was the end of it.
“But when she found out she was pregnant, Mom found him through a mutual friend. And he laughed, Ryland. He laughed in her face. He’d only gotten with her for a bet. He wasn’t actually attracted to her. He’d made her fucking pregnant for a bet. It was his idea not to wear protection. Which would’ve been one thing if he did the right thing and stood by her. But he humiliated her.”
“Evil,” Ryland snarls, his jaw becoming tight, his hand closing into a fist on the back of the couch cushion. “Where is this animal?”
“Dead,” I sigh. “He got into a car accident a few years ago. The mutual friend told us. My so-called dad didn’t want anything to do with us.”
Ryland shifts down the couch and wraps his arms around my waist.
I’ll always be shocked by how easily he handles me, pulling me into his lap as though I’m one of the weightless cheerleaders in high school. He pulls me into his lap and brings his lips close to mine, painting my cheeks with his warm breath.
“I am not like that,” he says fiercely. “I’m not tricking you. I’d never trick you. I swear.”
I nod shortly.
“Thank you, Ryland,” I murmur. “It means a lot. But…”
“But what?” he prompts when I trail off.
“Do you think I could go to bed? I need time to process all of this. I need sleep.”
He nods, kissing my cheek with surprising softness, and then stands up.
I slide from his lap and gaze up at him.
He leans down and scoops Chopper up, cradling him to his chest. The tiny, loud dog curls up and closes his eyes, content to be so close to Ryland.
“Take the time you need,” he says fiercely. “But don’t for a second think I’m ever going to let you go.”
With that, he leaves me, striding away in his armor-colored suit.
I sit back, staring up at the stars, willing myself to stop questioning this fate-fueled gift.
Chapter Twelve
Ryland
I sit on the balcony with Jackie’s nurse.
Harold is a tall, thin man with sharp cheekbones and a tufty red chin beard. He sips his coffee and then lays it on the platter, moving with the slow certainty I’ve come to expect from him.
It’s why I chose him.
He did an excellent job in my father’s final days.
“She’s doing tolerably well,” he says in his swanky British accent. “There isn’t much I can do but keep her company, make sure she takes her medication, and pray with her.”
“Pray,” I grunt, laying my coffee down and turning to my estate, the sun rising over the long green fields and turning them verdant and vivid.
