His bike rolls up in his yard, and a myriad of feelings wash through my stomach. But I frown when I see it’s Ethan stepping off. Why is Ethan driving Rye’s motorcycle?
Then I see my Camry pulling up to my side of the curb, and I’m almost positive my heart leaps into my throat. He didn’t. He couldn’t have.
“I guess he beat it out of John,” Maggie says with a grin I can feel.
I turn to her, and sure enough, her smile is broadly pasted onto her face. “John? He went to see John?” I ask, feeling sicker by the second.
John is dead. Rye is going to need an alibi.
“He asked what happened to your car. I told him. He found the pawn shop somehow—meaning he had to have gotten it out of John. And here he comes.”
Shit. I’m crying. Again. I hate crying, but this confusing bastard does so many crazy things to my heart.
I open the door before he reaches the top of the porch, and I’m in his arms before he can even tell me what he’s done. He smiles as he hugs me and kisses me on the head, but then he puts distance between us as he backs up.
“You’re not mad,” he says in relief, his whole body visibly relaxing.
How can I get mad?
“You didn’t have to do this,” I whisper, scared of speaking in any other tone.
He stares at me for a moment, and his eyes change. They look different than I’ve ever seen them before. Then he clears his throat and nods toward the car.
“If you have any more problems, let me know. Don’t ever deal with your ex directly again.”
That’s... worrisome. John really might be dead.
“What did you do?” I ask while following him, trying to keep up with his long strides.
I only get a glimpse of his smirk before it vanishes.
“Handled it.”
I glance down to his knuckles, but they show no proof of problems.
“He’ll sue you if you hurt him. He’s a money-hungry son of a bitch.”
He laughs as he slows down and tosses his arm around my shoulders. My heart does that freaky fluttering thing as he guides me toward my car.
“If some psycho charges into your home and punches you, then you might call the cops. But not if you’ve forged your ex-wife’s name on a title transfer. Not to mention, someone once told me that the tattoos make me look like a bad boy,” he says while winking.
Heart is still fluttering.
“How did you know—”
“Pawn shop guy told me everything. He’s a regular at my garage.” He pauses as we near my car. “I took it by the garage and had Wrench check it out. Looks like everything is still working good, but if it acts up, call me. I’ll come get it and take it back.”
If it wouldn’t be completely crazy, I’d kiss him right now. If he didn’t love me, he wouldn’t do this.
But he doesn’t try to do anything or even hint at anything. I miss him. I miss him so damn much.
***
RYE
Staring up at my dad’s house for the third time this week is a little disconcerting, but I think I’m finally ready to see him.
Dad opens the door and steps out, surprising me. He never comes outside very often. He rarely goes anywhere at all anymore. Not since Mom died. He even dates online before marrying his gold diggers.
“You want to talk to me?” he asks, coming closer. He stops when he reaches the gazebo outside, and he takes a seat on the swing. “Or are you just going to keep coming by and staring up at the old house?”
With a burdened breath, I go to join him. For a long time, we both just sit here, staring into space. I finally break the silence.
“Did you go to see Brin?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “And you did good. That girl loves you. You know it’s the good love when you can see it in their eyes. All I had to do was introduce myself and the girl nearly fainted.”
I wish that didn’t make me smile. I love and hate the fact that she loves me.
“Did she tell you?” he asks, looking off into the distance.
“No. Ethan mentioned it. Apparently he saw you leaving the museum. He was going to talk to her that day, though he wouldn’t tell me why.”
He also didn’t stay after he saw my father leaving. That’s bugging me.
Dad just grins for a moment before covering it with a serious face. “Probably for the same reason I went.” Before I can ask questions, he adds, “She’s why you’re here.” And it’s not a question.
“Part of the reason,” I murmur, sitting back just as he does.
The swing rocks us back and forth, and several more long moments of silence pass between us.
“I punish myself, too,” he says, leaning his head back. I don’t have to ask him what he means, but he elaborates anyway. “I marry women who hate me, because I’m scared of having a woman who loves me. But it’s so empty when I look at them, that I have it annulled right away. Usually. Or I never marry them and just let them live here until I can’t stand it anymore. But the house is always so empty without anyone here.”