I climb out of the car. Emerson wasn’t kidding when he said the place was falling apart. The old house looks abandoned and decrepit: the roof caved in, the porch beams rotted through. The yard is growing wild into the country beyond, and weeds grow up the side of one wall, pushing through the broken, dusty window panes to spreading inside.
I slowly walk closer. It was never much to begin with, just a simple wooden frame and joists. Now, after years of neglect, the whole place is crumbling down, battered by storms and years gone by. As I push the open door wider with a creak, there’s a flurry of noise; a possum races past as I step inside. I brace myself for more memories, the fighting and anger, and what came even before that. Mom stumbling home in the middle of the night, her junkie boyfriends passed out on the couch. Dishes smashing, Brit crying in her crib. Me curled tight in a ball in the corner, waiting for it all to stop.
But as I stand in the middle of what used to be the living room, there’s only silence. Nothing here save the mess and broken glass, just damp and rot and sunshine falling through the gaps in the roof.
I look around again. This time, I ignore the wreckage, and focus on the possibilities instead. New roof, rebuilt walls. Fresh paint, a restored porch…
For the first time in a long while, I feel energized. There’s a ton of work for sure, and I’ll need to find a job to pay for it all, but I can figure that out. I cashed out a couple of chips from my final game in Vegas; that’s enough to get me started.
I can make this work.
I start a list of materials and tools, then decide to head back into town and talk to Eddie at the hardware store, see what he has in stock. I’m lucky we’re set for a spell of good weather, and I’ve picked up enough skills on construction gigs over the past few years to be able to handle most of the work myself. It won’t be a quick job, that’s for sure, but I don’t care. I’ve got no place else to be, and nothing but time.
I’m making mental plans about that roof when I cruise around a bend and see a car pulled up ahead, slung across the side of the road. I let out a whistle. A '65 Mustang. You don’t see those every day.
The hood’s up, the driver bent over the engine, and I can see the steam from here.
I pull over to lend a hand. “You need some help?” I call, getting out and strolling over.
“Not unless you can rebuild an engine in five minutes flat,” the reply comes, despairing. “I think I just threw a rod.” Then the driver steps out around the car and I stop dead there on the asphalt.
It’s her. The dark-eyed angel from the bar in Vegas. Dressed in cut-offs and a tank top with engine grease smeared across her cheek. So beautiful she could strike me dead right here.
Tegan.
6.
TEGAN
You have got to be kidding me.
I stare at Ryland in total shock. For a split second, I wonder if I’m hallucinating, calling up my forbidden memories of Vegas after inhaling too many engine fumes. But no. I can feel the ground beneath my feet, and the ocean breeze on my bare skin. He’s flesh and blood, right here in front of me.
My eyes drink him in even as my mind races to make sense of this. He looks just as good as Vegas—better, even. Instead of the dark suit he was wearing, he looks rugged and relaxed. Dark hair curling slightly; stubble dusting his tanned jaw. His body is tall and muscular in a plaid shirt and jeans. And his eyes… That hot, intense stare I’ve been remembering, ever since it gazed straight through me like he could see every one of my secrets. His eyes are dark and clear as a winter’s night, bright as if they’re lit with a thousand stars.
Memories crash through me, the feel of his lips on mine. God, the intensity of that brief kiss shook me like nothing else. It was wildfire. It was a tornado.
It was the last mistake you swore you’d ever make.
“What are you doing here?” I manage to say.
He looks stunned for a moment, like he’s just as thrown to find me, too. Then he lets out a chuckle, and those dangerous lips spread into a heart-stopping grin.
“Hey, baby. Miss me?”
Yes.
I bite back my response, and turn instead to look down the empty country backroad. Green fields and woodland, and the ocean in the distance. Nobody for miles around, and my car has to finally give up the fight and break down here—right for Mr. Trouble to find me.
“This is not happening,” I shake my head.
“Maybe it’s fate.” Ryland strolls closer. He looks past me under the hood and winces. “Damn, girl, what have you been doing to her? A beautiful machine like this needs to be treated with respect.”
“And you’re the man to do it?” I shoot back, defensive.
He laughs. “Nah, your Mustang’s got style, I’ll give you that, but I prefer a little more muscle in my ride. Built for speed,” he winks.
“That’s not something I’d brag about,” I retort.
He laughs again, then studies me. His grin fades, becomes something quieter. More real. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“That’s because I walked away.” I try to get my head together—to focus on what’s happening right now, and not my brief moment of weakness a month ago.
Your moment of crazy-hot make-out weakness…
“So do you live here, or are you just stalking me?” I say, folding my arms across my chest. Ryland’s gaze slides lower, and I feel my cheeks flush. I dressed for the beach, not getting checked out by some muscle-bound bad boy.