“You have a crush on him.”
“A crush? Meg, I’m thirty-six, not fifteen.”
“Single women of a certain age are entitled to one pass…maybe two.”
Mia wondered if Meg was speaking from experience.
“A pass, huh? To have sex?”
“If that’s what you want…what you need. Maybe for you, a little lust will do. You’re under no obligation to take things beyond that first, dizzy thrill, Mia, but if you want to keep your juices flowing, then, dammit, do it.”
“Don’t swear.”
“Yes, Mother.”
They’d both cracked up and the advice giving had ended. Thank goodness. Because Mia had enough problems in her life without adding a crush—especially a juices-flowing, dizzy, lusting, thrill kind of attraction.
She was tossing the salad, getting ready to call the kids to the table when Emilee walked in from the garage. “Wash up and call your brother, please.”
A grunt. Probably the best Mia could hope for.
She watched her daughter, who, despite Mia’s momentary hesitation about becoming a mother, was more precious to her than air, trudge down the hall. The kid was breaking her heart, and Mia didn’t seem capable of doing anything right.
A crush, huh?
There’d been an attraction. Definitely two-sided. His response to her kiss proved that. But it had been so long since she dated—flirted, since she did anything the least bit naughty, she didn’t have the slightest idea how to begin.
Maybe you start by admitting you’re attracted, she thought.
And there was no denying that. She’d been thinking about Ryker Bensen all day. Not only was he gorgeous, he was living the carefree life she could only dream about. He was several years her junior. Despite the hundred or so hits his name brought up on Google, she knew practically nothing about him—except that he claimed to own her land.
Was he completely the wrong choice for a crush? Absolutely. But maybe her sister was right.
Why couldn’t I have a little fun if I keep my head about me?
And when hadn’t Mia Zabrinski kept her head about her? Only once—when she’d fallen in love with Edward. And she’d learned her lesson the hard way. She was never falling in love again.
*
Ryker set the alarm on his phone then tossed it toward his pillow before moving to all fours to arch his back in the “cat” position. His small propane heater made the tent nice and cozy; his battery-operated lantern gave off a comforting glow. But neither took the edge off Ryker’s anxiety. He’d never liked the middling time between twilight and darkness. Normally, the murky gloom of impending dark made him head to a local pub or grab a bowl of soup at some diner. But given the state of his finances, he’d decided to spend his last night in his tent reading, doing a little yoga and meditating on the fact he was gainfully employed.
Starting Monday, he’d work five ten-hour days for a flat fee that seemed ridiculously low.
As he rolled his shoulders to stretch away some of his tension, he recalled the interview Louise had arranged for him in the parking lot of the discount motel on the edge of town.
“So, you know your way around a camera, huh?” Bob Raines asked after wiping a dab of mustard from the corner of his mouth.
He polished off the last bite of a polish sausage sandwich while Ryker gave him a brief history of his credits. “Fallujah 2004. Embedded with a squadron of Marines. Sixteen hundred enemy soldiers killed. We lost fourteen. Two weren’t much older than I was at the time. Twenty.”
“Lost your cherry, huh?”
“Lost my taste for war.”
Bob sucked on the straw of a twenty-eight ounce soda for a few seconds then asked, “Ever shoot school kids?”
Ryker shrugged. He’d shot kids too sick to beg for water, dead kids staring sightless at the sky, starving kids with rickets and distended bellies, scared kids armed with machine guns. “Not for yearbooks. How long have you been doing this?”
Bob burped. “Going on a hundred years.”
Since Bob appeared to be in his early fifties, Ryker guessed that exaggeration was one of his temporary employer’s traits. Everything was bigger with Bob…including Bob, who had three or four inches on Ryker and probably weighed close to four hundred pounds.
But the man didn’t let his weight slow him down. While they talked, Bob showed Ryker his operation, all neatly stowed in a commercial van with the company’s logo and a page from a yearbook displayed as a vinyl wrap advertisement.
“The Marietta High student body got to vote—traditional headshots with hair light or landscape with natural lighting. This year, the kids want to be outdoors. More work for us, but what the hell, it’s their yearbook.”
Bob pointed to Ryker’s backpack. “You got a camera?”
Ryker handed him his Nikon.
Bob checked out a few of the shots on the back screen then returned it. “Best resumée I’ve ever seen. You’re hired.” Then he walked to the front seat of the van and pulled out a clipboard. He tugged a couple of sheets free and gave them to Ryker. “You still have to fill out this paperwork for the home office. You’re not a registered sex offender, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. But the Sheriff’s Department will need to confirm that before you can set foot on school grounds, and you’ll have to get a TB test—unless you have one that’s current.”
Ryker thought a moment. “I might. I know I’m up-to-date on Meningococcal meningitis and hepatitis-A.”
Most people would have used that segue to ask about Ryker’s travels, but not Bob. He added a few more sheets to Ryker’s employment package. “Here’s the schedule. As long as the weather holds, we’ll either set up beneath the big tree on campus or there’s a brick wall I’ve used before. The dull red color gives a nice autumnal feel.”
“What will I be doing?”
“You’ll start by assisting me in the lower grades. You haven’t lived until you’ve photographed fifth-graders.” He took another suck from his soda. “Once we’re done with all the grades, we start group shots. In the gym. I got tripods and lights in the back. Everything you’ll need. Your goal is to try for at least one shot that doesn’t have somebody blinking or some other a-hole giving his buddy bunny ears. I hate group shots. But you know what they say…shit rolls downhill, so lucky you.”
As Ryker stuffed the application into his backpack, Bob pulled his suitcase from the van and locked the doors. Apparently, that concluded the interview.
“I once took a money shot of a charging bull elephant,” Ryker said after making sure his camera was safely stowed. “I’m pretty sure I can face down a bleacher filled with teens.”
Bob, who honestly didn’t look like the laughing kind, let out a gruff guffaw and he walked away. “We’ll see, hot shot. Monday morning.”
Now, Ryker inhaled deeply as he shifted into the swan position and bowed his head to rest his brow on the cool, slick fabric of his sleeping bag. He was oddly excited about his new job. Being a bum—a…what had Mia called him?…an ecosquatter—was definitely losing its appeal. He was ready to rejoin the world. Monday couldn’t come soon enough.
His only trepidation stemmed from the thought of bumping into Mia’s daughter. Normally, kids didn’t bother him. With a few coins and snapping a few shots, he’d been able to create impromptu poses all over the world. But he’d never dealt with the children of a woman he couldn’t get out of his mind.
“Mia,” he murmured, trying to push her image out of his mind to finish his meditation. But she wouldn’t cooperate. Her pensive eyes. Her unexpected smile.
“Damn.”
He gave up and rolled to his side to reach for his camera. With a quick flip he was on his back, pillow scrunched up under his neck. He found the music app on his phone and hit the playlist named: Mia.
Then, with a sigh of complete and utter capitulation, he clicked on his camera to review the images he’d taken that day. Beauty, annoyance, joy and bliss. Her face captured his imagination and pulled him headlong into her story. He just wished he knew how it turned out.
Chapter 6
‡
The following afternoon, Mia rapped on the makeshift table that Ryker had built to serve as his kitchen. “Knock. Knock. Anybody home?”
She’d wrestled with her conscience all night, trying to persuade herself this problem with her land rested on someone else’s shoulders. But, deep down, she’d always felt a niggle of doubt stemming from the age-old adage: “If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.”
She owed Ryker an apology for being such a bitch. But, despite the presence of his bike, which was chained to a nearby tree, the place felt deserted. “Hello?”
“Hi,” a familiar voice called from the opposite direction.
She spun on one heel to see Ryker trotting toward her from the river. The towel around his bare shoulders and the wet board shorts said he’d been swimming—or bathing—in the river. The ice-cold river.
The mother in her couldn’t help but scold him. “Are you crazy? That water’s got to be forty degrees.”
He shook his head like a dog, sending water droplets spraying in every direction. “Less. I swear I saw mini-icebergs float by,” he said, his teeth chattering as he toweled his hair. “But I was only in long enough to wash this mop.”