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A shiver crawled its way down my spine. I’d been hopeful that Ryan had been getting closer and closer to nailing down Walter and ending this terrifying saga, but now it was like we were back to square one. I tried to grab onto the life vest of positivity he was throwing my way, but my pessimism won out, sinking me further into my negative thoughts. “What if things aren’t going to be all right? What if it’s not Kimmy and this person keeps slipping through your fingers until they end up cutting off mine?” I clutched my hands into tight fists. Part of me wanted to cry; another part wanted to scream.
Ryan’s hand on my back worked as an instant balm to the burning anxiety in my chest. “I’m not letting that happen. Ever. You may have been dealing with this by yourself, but not anymore. You’ve got me, and I’m going to get answers. Trust me.”
I wanted to. So fucking bad. How could I not trust those kind eyes and matching smile? Ryan Diaz was a walking billboard for “trust in me,” like he was sent to solve everyone’s problems while looking effortlessly handsome doing it.
But still… I’d been hurt. By exes, by friends, by my own biological parents. I understood that trust could be as fickle as water cupped in your hand. It’s there one second; you can feel it, see it, taste it. The next, it’s gone through your fingers, leaving you with nothing but a memory of how safe and sound you had felt.
“I do trust you.” Maybe if I said it, I’d end up meaning it. Living in it. “I do. I know you’re a great detective. I’ve never felt more hope than when you entered the picture, and that’s got to mean something.”
He smiled and surprised me with a kiss. It made my knees tremble, the way his lips locked onto mine. “Come,” Ryan said, hand moving from my back to my arm, fingers twining through mine. His lips shone in the disappearing light.
Home. This is home.
“Looks like the chef has our first course ready.” He motioned toward the sliding glass door that led into the dining room. I could see a colorful assortment of plates on the table, where a couple of big pastel hydrangea bouquets sat.
“Unless you want to skip the meal and order chicken nuggets,” he joked, teasing me for my passionate love of those crispy golden treats from heaven.
I quirked my mouth to the side and gave him a playful slap on the chest. “Not today, Satan. Not today. Let’s get inside and feast before I change my mind, though.”
Ryan and I went back into the cabin, laughing, hand in hand. I didn’t really know what the rest of the night had in store, but I didn’t care. As long as I was spending it with Ryan, I knew it’d be unforgettable.
19
Ryan Diaz
Dinner had been a six-course event that left my tongue and taste buds spent from the curated collection of excellent flavors. We had cotton candy tuna tartare, lavender-spiced edamame, a honey-glazed cherry filet, and a berry soufflé and a rhubarb cheesecake to top it all off. The ambiance was perfect, too: candelabras set on the long oak table, the chandelier above us set to dim. Behind Elijah were three arching windows that looked out to the serene star-dotted sky, the jagged peaks of mountains visible only through shadow. Truly, it was a next-level kind of dinner, and it was made all the more delicious by the snack of a man sitting across from me.
Hell, Elijah wasn’t even a snack. He embodied the main course, and I wanted to get that body on mine before we started on the second plate.
The conversation between us matched the five-star meal. It flowed easily and seemed endless, which was perfect since I never wanted this to end. Elijah’s slanted smile and bubbly laugh had me as buzzed as the fizzing rosé filling my glass.
“And what did you end up doing?” I asked as Elijah wrapped up a story of the time he got locked inside a closet full of wigs and breastplates.
“I called my roommate Charlie at the time, and he came to rescue me. That guy, he’s got a heart of gold and—wait a second, he’s dating a Stonewall guy.”
“Hold up,” I said, sitting up straighter. “Charlie Marsh? He used to be your roommate?”
Elijah nodded, taking a sip of his drink. I couldn’t help but let my eyes fall to his throat. The way his Adam’s apple bobbed with his drink, working as a mark for my lips… fuck. Ever since Elijah and I first hooked up, I had become a fiend for him, for his body, for having my hands all over him, feeling every ridge and curve and throb and gasp and—
