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You said there are layers upon layers of rules, she’d said the night before after, once again, passion had demolished my well-constructed defenses. What are they? I hadn’t had the wherewithal to respond to her question in that moment, but I knew the answer. There were rules about wearing the right clothes and having the right friends, networking with the right people and having the right social circle and the right business associates.
And, eventually, the right spouse.
Rory wouldn’t check any of those boxes.
And she felt like freedom and dreams that were only mine, avenues I longed to travel but never could. And she seemed to see me in a way no woman ever had. Which scared the hell out of me.
So yeah, maybe I did need protection from her. And I definitely needed to get my head back on straight. Head down. Work hard. Focus. Win.
How many times had my father repeated those words to me in just that order?
But then another voice spoke louder, drowning out my father.
Measure with your heart. Learn the rules, then break them in a way that only you can.
I squeezed my head. That damn Frenchman. Haunting me.
I resisted calling her until five p.m. when the first employees began leaving the building. When she didn’t answer, I waited until I’d gotten home to call her again. It was after nine thirty, where the hell was she? I went to my window, looking out at the dwindling light, the sun a mere slip above the water. I recalled what she’d looked like in the light of the sunset the night before, standing on the roof of the old Savings and Loan. The memory alone made my stomach tighten as a deep yearning balled in my throat and made it difficult to breathe. I pushed those feelings away, emptying my mind as again, I stared out the window and watched the water swallow the sun.
I picked up the phone again and dialed her number, realizing that I was quickly leaning into the territory of desperation. She still didn’t answer.
Maybe her phone’s out of battery. Maybe it’s charging.
I grabbed my keys and headed for the door because I couldn’t fucking help myself. Who cared? I only had limited time before there would be no choice but to leave her be. Only weeks before I’d be on another continent and she’d be back home, waiting tables in her family bar. An image flashed in my mind, the way her face looked when I ran my fingers down her inner arm. Bliss. Contentment. Surrender. I squeezed the steering wheel as I blew out a frustrated breath.
Maybe I could see her when I came home for visits, whenever those might be. I pulled up in front of Faith’s house, but the lights were out and neither car was in the driveway. Hopelessness descended, both for the fact that they were obviously out, and for my musings about seeing Aurora here and there on brief forays home. I wanted more than that. Not just from her, but from life. I’d already decided I wanted to settle down, create a family. And not only that, I wouldn’t suggest such paltry offerings. She deserved far more than some man who jetted in now and again for some pool table sex. The very thought—and even though I’d cast myself in the role of “some man”—made me want to fight someone. Probably myself.
I started pulling away from the curb when I had a thought. I braked, picking up my phone. I was pretty sure Faith used her cell number as her business contact. I pulled up her gallery website and then dialed the number she had listed there. She answered on the second ring.
“Hey Faith, it’s Gage.” It was loud in the background, the sounds of what I thought were country music making me raise my voice to make sure she could hear me.
“Gage! Hi. Are you looking for Rory?”
“Yeah, ah, I called her and was just sort of worried when she didn’t call back.”
Faith let out what sounded like an inebriated giggle. “She accidentally left her phone at home. Rory, it’s Gage.”
“At home? Where are you?”
“Ivy League!” I heard her call from the background. A smile tugged at my lips, my breath coming easier at even hearing the distant sound of her voice.
“We’re at The Broken Spoke next to—”
“I know where it is. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Bring your cowboy boots!”
I didn’t have any cowboy boots, and I wouldn’t have taken the time to find a place to buy some even if stores were open. “See you soon,” I said and then disconnected the call.
The Broken Spoke was located in a more eclectic area of town by the lake that featured several other bars and restaurants, hip clothing boutiques, and overpriced coffee shops. It was tourist heavy and provided all kinds of options as far as nightlife entertainment.
I flashed my ID at the bouncer and pushed open the saloon-style doors, the loud refrains of some country ballad filling the massive, crowded room. Despite the noise of the guy singing in a twang about a rock and a hard place—which seemed like an appropriate entry song—whoops and hollers could still be heard from the other side of the room where I knew there was a mechanical bull.
I made my way through the crowd, my neck craned, eyes peeled for a dark head of glossy hair. Where was she?
I pushed through a group of people obstructing my view of the bull ride, stopping in my tracks when I saw who was riding it. Rory. Arm raised, head thrown back, spine curled, ass jutted out as she laughed so hard she was about to fall out of the saddle, regardless of the bucking bull. Oh, Jesus. I stood there, a smile tilting my lips as I watched her throwing all caution to the wind as she so often did. So damn spirited and full of life. Willing to concoct a ridiculous plan to find her father because she’d been thrown an opportunity and she was not going to let it pass her by. I didn’t know what it felt like to perpetually live with that kind of passion.
I had no idea.
