Ryder's Bride (Brides Bay Book 1) Page 25

  With one finger, he tilted her chin up so she had look at him. Her gaze was stony, but her eyes shimmered with a suspicious brightness.

  “Are you sure that’s what you want?” he asked gently. “Because it’s not what I want. I want to be with you.”

  Her shoulders slumped, and the fight seemed to go out of her as she sighed. “Am I sure? No, of course not. Look, I’m sorry I snapped your head off. I’ve been scared half to death ever since I saw you go down in that pile. You can’t imagine what’s been going through my head. It was like…” She bit her lower lip, and then her gaze skittered sideways at the sound of squealing tires.

  A cab shot up the long driveway and hit the brakes right in front of them. Ry ignored it for the moment.

  “I get it, babe. That’s all the more reason for me to get you back to the inn and take care of you.”

  “No, you’re the one who needs taking care of.”

  He opened the cab door but Claire took over and grimly helped him get in.

  The discussion clearly wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

  * * *

  Though a couple of glasses of wine had taken the sharper edges off her nerves, Claire’s legs kept jiggling under the table. Ry was taking his time checking out the dinner menu, but she’d settled on the first thing she saw. She probably wouldn’t be able to eat, anyway.

  They’d barely spoken since they got back to the inn. He’d been on the phone talking to race officials about the incident and making arrangements to pick up his damaged motorcycle tomorrow. She had quickly downed a glass of wine in the room and then gone for a walk by the lake. It was a gorgeous, warm evening and, to give Ry space, she’d taken her time strolling, taking in the sounds of a hooting owl, the water lapping against the hotel dock, and the breeze whispering through the trees. It was a perfect scene for lovers, but it mocked her.

  Because even if Ry might want some kind of future with her, she was no longer sure she could make it work.

  He put down his menu. “I’ve been thinking about a toast.”

  He’d taken off the sling and was moving his arm cautiously and stiffly, wincing at times. Despite the obvious pain, he looked gorgeous in a black sports jacket over a tailored white shirt. A butterfly bandage above his left eye was now the only visible testimony to the disaster at the racetrack. Underneath his clothes though, his body had to be a covered by bruises and scrapes. Whether she’d get a close look at that damage later tonight remained to be seen. She had a strong feeling that things were going to go south once they started talking seriously.

  “To surviving one more day?” she quipped, trying to camouflage her nervousness.

  “No, but I feel you. Actually, my toast is to you. Not just for showing up at the hospital, but for sticking around all that time. That was pretty special, Claire.”

  She clinked her glass against his. “What, you thought I’d just go back to the hotel and spend the afternoon at the spa? Don’t be crazy.”

  “Crazy? Listen, I’ve been taken to the hospital for injuries more times than I can count. Trainers sometimes stayed with me because it was their job. No girlfriend ever did though.” His dark gaze went darker. “No wife either.”

  That admission almost made her tear up. Even if she hadn’t been in love with Ry, she’d have done the same thing for him. She’d have done it for any friend, or even an acquaintance. “Maybe it’s a small town trait. Us Brides Bay yokels do like to take care of each other.”

  “Promise Islanders excepted?” He gave her a wry smile before taking a drink.

  She waggled a hand. “I’m still hopeful that cooler heads will prevail on that particular issue.”

  Actually, she wasn’t sure of that at all. But at this moment, the Promise Island dispute meant nothing to her.

  Ry studied her, then said, “You know this was the first time I’ve been involved in a crash on the track, right?”

  Claire nodded.

  “And you saw that it’s like I told you when we first talked about motorcycles. You saw that even if there is an incident, everybody usually comes out of it in good shape. And that’s exactly what happened today.” He gave a low laugh. “I wish I could say the same for my bike though. It’s not looking too pretty right now.”

  She set down her wineglass to avoid the temptation to throw it at him. “Ry, I don’t understand how can you be so…so totally casual about this. We both know it was pure chaos out there today. Bikes were flying, bodies were flying. And yet all you can talk about is how everything turned out fine. Aside from the fact that you’ve got a strange definition of fine, what if it had turned out to be a lot worse? What if you’d ended up breaking your neck, or suffering such a bad concussion that it’d ruin the rest of your life?”

  He stiffened. “And what if I got hit by lightning while I was putting on my racing suit? What if the roof of the grandstand fell on your head? Jesus, Claire, worrying about all the shit that might happen is a lousy way to live your life, isn’t it? I’m not going to waste my time and energy dreaming up things that could go wrong, and you shouldn’t either. Look, even if something did go seriously south during a race—and you know that’s pretty rare on sportbike tracks—I could live with it. I’d have to, because it was my choice to take the risk.” He shook his head. “I just can’t dwell on the negatives.”

  Not like you do was the unspoken message.

  His words stung her like a swarm of black flies. He was right about one thing though. She did obsess about all the scary crap that life could throw at you. Still, it hurt to hear him be so painfully blunt.

  He must be running out of patience with her.

  “Believe me, I really envy your ability to think like that,” she said. “But aside from how you feel, how do you think it makes the people who care about you feel when they see you risking your life for…for… sports.”

  She’d almost said for stupid thrills.

  “People like you, you mean.”

  “Of course like me. I thought you’d understand, given my past. Given the people I’ve already lost in my life.”

  “Okay, but understand what?” he asked in a much softer voice.

  Was he that dense, or was he just trying to make her say the words out loud?

  “Understand what it would do to me if you were killed in some stupid accident. How it would…would trash me,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Dammit, she would not say she loved him. Not now anyway.

  He stared at her, but it didn’t seem to be in anger. He no longer even seemed particularly frustrated. Resigned would have been her guess, as if he’d been expecting this result all along. As if he’d always known that she wouldn’t be able to accept his racing, not even when today’s incident turned out to be fairly benign.

  They were right back at the beginning—two immovable objects crashing against each other. Except this time, Claire’s heart was crumbling under the impact.

  * * *

  Her words seemed as close to a declaration of love as you could get without saying actually saying “I love you.” Still, Ry found it all hard to process.

  He’d thought her unwillingness to watch him race was about the memory of her accident—more like a flashback than anything else. But now she seemed to be putting in him the same category as her father and her best friend, both killed in horrific accidents.

  That sure as hell sounded like love to him.

  Then again, Krista had said she’d loved him too and look at how that turned out. As for his old man, there was no way in hell that relationship had anything to do with love. His stepmother and stepsister? Yeah, right. No love lost there either.

  In fact, he wasn’t sure he even understood what the word love meant.

  He finally realized he’d been looking right past Claire, his gaze fixed on a painting on the wall behind her. Blinking, he refocused on her. “So, what is it you’re actually saying? Are you asking me to choose between you and racing?”

  She forced a smile so sad that it made
his chest hurt. “I would never ask you to do that.”

  Shit.

  He wanted to take her hand and tell her everything would be all right. Better yet, sweep her up in his arms and take her back to their room, where he would show her exactly how he felt about her.

  And say he would do anything to make her happy.

  But it would be a lie. He couldn’t give up on who he was to please her—or to please anyone.

  “Maybe not, but it’s what you’d like me to do. You’d like me to quit racing—or even quit riding bikes completely. Let’s just be honest about that, okay, Claire?”

  When she swallowed the last of her wine, he poured what remained in the bottle into her glass. She looked like she needed it more than he did.

  “All right. I’d be lying if I said otherwise,” she said quietly.

  “Okay, and then what would happen if I did? Would you want me to avoid anything that might be remotely risky, like driving my truck or kayaking? Maybe I shouldn’t even walk Stanley out on the bluffs. Hell, I might trip on a rock and break my neck.”

  She glared at him. “Ry, come on. I’m not suggesting you should live in a bubble.”

  Okay, he was being a jerk by pushing it that far. He blamed part of it on the headache that continued to ratchet up to epic proportions. Still, they had a real problem, and they needed to deal with it now.

  “I know you’re not. It’s just that people keep telling me what I should and shouldn’t be doing. It’s been that way my whole life, and I’m tired of it. The only good thing about leaving hockey was that I could finally do whatever the hell I wanted without anybody issuing me orders not to.”

  “I understand that, Ry. Really, I do.”

  His heart sank when he took in her determined expression.

  You understand, but you can’t be with me. Should he make her say it out loud?

  No, because her message was already clear.

  It sucked to see her letting him go. And without even putting up much of a fight.

  “Look, I get why you’re afraid of losing people,” he said. “But you’re the one who pushed me out of my comfort zone. You’re the one who told me that if I’m ever going to get over being a so-called hermit, I’ll need to do some things that I don’t necessarily like. Like volunteering on committees, or even getting up on that festival stage with a bunch of damn spotlights trained on me. You made me do all that, Claire. And you made me see that it could be worth it.” He leaned forward, intent on making his point. “But you can’t do the same for me?”

  Her face had gone ashen. “Oh, God, I’d give anything to be able to get over this. I hate being afraid—it makes me sick to my stomach. But it’s not stupid to worry about the people you love, Ry. It’s not stupid to fear losing them.” She pressed a fist over her heart. “I learned that lesson the hard way.”

  Man, she was just about killing him. But sympathy wasn’t what she needed right now. What she needed was a push—and a strong one.

  “I know you did. But if I can face up to my demons, so can you.”

  She flinched and then shook her head. “What I have to face up to is reality. Maybe I could lie and tell you that I could somehow cope with your racing. But it wouldn’t be true. I can’t pretend that your racing wouldn’t eventually drive me crazy and poison our entire relationship.”

  And he couldn’t pretend to be surprised to hear her say that. His disappointment dug deep and was more painful than any hit he’d ever taken on the ice.

  She was right. This was one gulf they couldn’t bridge.

  “Claire, I’m not sure where we can go from here. Probably our only option is to go back to a strictly business relationship.”

  Just saying the words felt like someone was taking a jackhammer to his skull.

  Her smile was weak and forced. “Well, at least I’m glad to hear you’re not firing me.”

  He shook his head. “You’ll never have to worry about that.”

  “Thanks, but we’ll still be friends too, won’t we? And maybe occasional performing partners?” While her lips were curved up in a parody of a smile, her eyes were big, dark pools of grief and regret.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  It was only a maybe because the thought of being that close to Claire without being able to touch her seemed like a one-way ticket to hell.

  Chapter 23

  He felt lonely. Again.

  And it sucked. Even the guitar resting on his thigh seemed to be in tune with his shitty mood, prompting him to mechanically play one dreary song after another. One more time mumbling his way through Beck’s “Lost Cause” and he might have to dive head first into Brides Bay just to get away from himself.

  He’d spent a lot of time tinkering with his bikes and puttering around the house and yard. He’d needed to catch up on a bunch of little jobs he’d been neglecting for a while. And when he wasn’t working, he kept picking up his guitar to see if music could chase away his blues. He’d run through a couple of up tempo numbers and sometimes start to feel a bit better, but then his autopilot would take over and start playing some depressing melody.

  Loneliness wasn’t a familiar feeling. He’d always craved solitude, and liked to avoid company except in small doses. But for the past five days—since the stupid blow-up with Claire in New Hampshire—he was just rattling around the house, bored and more than a little pissed off at the whole damn world. Even Stanley’s constant happy presence hadn’t been enough to lift him out of his funk for more than a few moments.

  He glanced at Claire’s painting, still on the floor and still turned around so the back faced out. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to hang it. Would there ever come a day when he could see it and not think about how much he missed her?

  He should probably just give it to her as a gift. She’d said it was one of her best works because she’d poured her heart into it. He’d never really understood emotion in art before, but maybe he did now. There was something about the painting that made it a lot more than just a pretty view. Sometimes he even imagined that its bleak perspective had foreshadowed the blowup of their relationship.

  Yet offering it to her anytime soon would likely hurt her even more, and the cold fact was that he’d hurt Claire too much already. He’d been a fool to get involved with her in the first place. She needed to find a good, reliable guy to settle down with, preferably a hometown dude who never did anything more dangerous than lighting a backyard grill.

  For now, he decided he’d just put the painting in a closet.

  Stanley padded into the office and jumped up onto the sofa, shoving his big head under Ry’s elbow and jostling his still-sore arm.

  “Stan, you’re killing me.” He put down his guitar, managing a laughing tone despite the stab of pain in his shoulder. “You picked the wrong arm to bash around, old buddy.”

  The poor guy just wanted a little more affection. Ry’s sour mood obviously hadn’t been easy on the Newf, even though he’d tried to give the dog as much attention as he could. Dogs always picked up on their owners’ moods, whether good or bad. That was no doubt why Stanley was prodding him now, trying to get him to enjoy his magnificent canine presence rather than keep gloomily picking away on the guitar.

  “Okay, we can do some snuggling,” he said as Stanley climbed halfway into his lap. “But only for a few minutes, because I’ve got to look at the new sketches.”

  The ones he’d been avoiding all day.

  The architect’s revised drawings had arrived by courier this morning and were now spread out on his desk. A cursory glance had told him that they were closer to what he’d been hoping for since his discussion with Carter. While still a bit too modernistic for his taste, this version was certainly moving in the right direction. With input from Carter, he hoped to give the architect the kind of detailed feedback that would lead to the finalization of an acceptable final design. And that should feel like a monkey off his back.

  Or maybe not.

  The fact was that he’d lost most of
his interest in the project. He still planned on building the new house even if he decided to pull out of Brides Bay—that was the only thing that made financial sense—yet nothing about it felt right anymore. He should have known better than to put down even the shallowest roots here.

  Maybe not anywhere else either, at least until he got his head on straight.

  When his cell rang, his first thought was to ignore it, since he wasn’t in any mood to talk. Checking the call display made sense though. What if it was Claire?

  The name of the caller was blocked.

  For some reason, he decided to take the call anyway. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ryder. It’s me.” A pause. “Surprised?”

  He nearly dropped the phone. He hadn’t heard that voice for years. Yet it was one he’d never forget.

  * * *

  Ry wouldn’t have recognized her if he’d seen her up close on the street. Fortunately, she’d called him from Portland Airport as she was renting a car. She’d said it didn’t feel right to just show up at his door unannounced.

  He wasn’t sure he believed that. He remembered just how much Samantha Henry loved surprises.

  Even though her call had prepared him, it had been a hell of a gut-wrenching surprise to lay eyes on his stepsister.

  “Thanks,” Sam said as he handed her another cup of coffee. She’d already downed four cups in two hours, joking that she’d given up meth only to become addicted to caffeine.

  She was stretched out on the sofa, casually dressed in a pretty cotton tunic and black tights. He could hardly believe the change since the last time he’d seen her. Three years ago, when he caught up to her in San Jose during one of his team’s West Coast road trips, she’d been a hollowed-out junkie just out of her third stint in rehab—all of which he’d paid for. That day, she’d promised him again that she’d finally kicked meth.

  Not long thereafter, she’d dropped entirely out of sight.

  The last time he’d heard from her was two and a half years ago, when she sent him an email from a Hotmail address. He’d replied, but she never responded. He’d tried after that to contact her in every way he knew how but had always come up empty. His father and Sam’s mother had been equally in the dark. Unlike him, they’d made no effort to locate her.