Page 17 of 500 First Editions (The Romantics #3)

RYAN

THE MANHATTAN PROJECT

“ S o. What’s the verdict?” I asked as I lounged on the bed in Willow’s hotel room as she methodically folded her clothes into rolls or tiny squares to fit in her suitcase.

Earlier that day, I had stolen time with her at a laundromat while she washed everything in her suitcase as she prepared for her next road trip. It was great. Three hours of uninterrupted face-time, talking, and shooting the shit.

We didn’t get too deep. Half the time, we were sharing stupid videos back and forth. But I liked seeing what made her laugh. What her doom scrolling interests were. What she stopped and watched with rapt fascination.

So far, I’d learned that she always liked videos from her favorite comedienne.

She teared up at sportsmanship montages in football, even though she said she had never once watched a full game.

And she loved videos of hydraulic presses squishing different objects, just as long as it didn’t spray chunks of whatever it was.

“Haven’t decided yet,” she clipped as she folded a pair of underwear that I very much wanted to see on her . . . and then off of her.

It had officially been one week since Willow and I met in the checkout line. One week enthralled by the chase. One week of her making me work for it.

And damn, did I want to work for it.

The more time I spent with Willow, the more I liked her. And I liked her a lot that first day.

“Really?” I countered. “Because what you’re doing looks a lot like packing.”

A devious smile curled at the corner of her mouth. “What’s it to you? Worried you won’t figure out my love language in time?”

So. She was following my dating program.

The way Willow said it, she made it seem like she had found the answers to a test. But that wasn’t it at all.

She was taking the same test I was, even if she didn’t think so. Because, for every question I asked, she had to answer as well. And for every answer she gave, she had to think about what mine would be.

This wasn’t an interview. It was a conversation. One that I hoped would last well beyond three months.

“What makes you think I haven’t figured it out already?”

Willow grabbed the overalls she had been wearing the day we met up for pierogies and summertime hot chocolate and folded them neatly.

Her face was completely impassive, as if nothing was bothering her.

“Because you haven’t explored all of them, and you promised you wouldn’t.

” Her eyes danced with presumed victory.

“And I don’t beg. Not for sex, and not for love. ”

I grinned. “I’ll enjoy making you eat those words, cupcake.”

Willow snorted. “Good luck.”

“I think they’ll probably taste like my cock in your mouth.”

She froze with her jaw on top of her suitcase. “You did not just say that.”

I gave her a wink, and she returned the gesture with an eye roll as she moved on to a pile of bras.

“Don’t you ever work?” she grumbled.

“Perks of being self-employed. But you get that. Now, don’t think you’re getting out of answering my question. Where are we going next?”

" We are not going anywhere,” Willow clipped. “ I’m going to Michigan.”

Bingo .

“Cool. Who’s taking the first driving shift?” I asked.

“I am taking the first shift and every shift after that," Willow retorted. “You’re not coming.”

“Come on. You don’t want to go to Michigan with me? I’m a great road trip partner.”

“I do not want to spend fourteen hours in a car with the belligerent man from the convenience store checkout line.”

“Future husband, cupcake.”

“You don’t even know my real name.”

“Your first name is all I need. You can take my last name. Or if you’re feeling chatty, you can tell me your last name too, and I’ll take yours.” I grinned. “I’m agreeable like that.”

“How nice for me,” she grumbled as she shoved the bras into the corner of the suitcase.

I hunched forward and scooped her pile of socks closer to me. “So. Why Michigan?” I asked as I started to match the pairs.

To my surprise, the combativeness dissipated from her posture.

“Found a cute little cottage on Lake Charlevoix. The owners had renters who were supposed to be there all summer cancel at the last minute. They gave me a great deal since I’ll be there for a few months instead of them having to turn it over every week. ”

“What’s the book going to be about?”

“I was a little inspired by Wander,” she admitted.

“There’s this lavender farm close to the cottage, so I’m going to check it out.

I think my leading lady will have inherited a property like that and have to revitalize it.

She meets some small-town, blue-collar hunk, and they fall in love while uncovering secrets and going on side quests. ”

“Side quests?”

“Side quests. Like, little adventures that let the leading lady and the book boyfriend unintentionally grow closer because they’re working toward a common goal.

Something mundane, like fixing up a house or tilling old plants or battling the evil corporate shark who wants to turn the beautiful, untouched land into a parking lot. ”

I needed to add side quests to the Ford Method.

“You’re not even listening, are you? You’re just thinking about how to monetize that.” Willow was aggressively folding an old t-shirt that had seen better days. “Honestly, I’m shocked. The great Ryan Ford didn’t have side quests in his little bag of tricks?”

I tossed a balled-up pair of socks at her. “My bag of tricks is plenty full.”

Willow caught it and tossed it back at me. “Keep your bag of tricks to yourself.”

“Ah. No can do, cupcake. It would be a pretty boring three months if I did that. Sharing is caring.”

“You sound like Miles.”

"Who is Miles?”

“Whitney’s husband. Former MMA fighter and current bodyguard.”

That name sounded familiar. “Hold on. You’re telling me that Whitney West is actually Whitney Zhou and she’s married to Miles Zhou ? Like . . . the Miles Zhou?”

"Technically, Annie Zhou is married to Miles Zhou. But yes.”

“No shit?”

Willow nodded. “Google it if you don’t believe me.”

I abandoned the socks and reached for my phone. “If you’re telling the truth, I need you to hook me up. He’d be a great podcast guest. Athlete. Guy’s guy. Romance author’s husband.”

Willow’s laugh was loud and long. She doubled over, clutching a pair of shorts to her chest.

“What?”

“You think Miles is a guy’s guy?” She wiped away her tears as her boisterous laughter turned to knowing giggles.

“I mean . . . Have you seen him fight? Because I have.”

Willow just shook her head. “We are talking about the man who has never once been seen without at least one rubber duck on his clothing. He wears a fanny pack when he goes with Whitney to events. It holds everything she might possibly need. Candy. Hand sanitizer. Phone charger. Tampons. Makeup. The works. He named it the Annie Pack. Whitney wears wigs. Who styles them for her? Miles. The three of us went to visit Wander when she was having a mid-ish life crisis and was still pretending like she wasn’t totally in love with the guy she ended up marrying.

We gave her a whole movie montage makeover moment.

Who did her hair while I did her makeup? He did. Miles is a girl’s guy.”

While Willow rambled, all I could do was smile as my thumb hovered over the search engine on my phone.

Acts of service.

Quality time.

That’s how Willow showed love. She was the type to cross the country when her friend needed her. Something about that made me fall just a little further.

A phone rang, cutting through the heavy silence. I looked down at mine, but the screen had gone dark. Willow shuffled around the mess on the bed and dug her phone out of the rest of the laundry that needed to be folded.

“Hey, Lisa,” she greeted.

I kept working on the socks while I racked my brain to remember who Lisa was, but I couldn’t remember. Willow mentioned a sister. Maybe that was who had called.

“Lis—”

I glanced up as I found a matching pair and saw that Willow’s face had gone ghostly white. Her eyes flicked to me as wariness flooded her expression.

“No, I’m not alone. Ryan’s here with me. What’s going on?”

That didn’t sound like the start of a casual call. It sounded like?—

“Oh my god.” Willow’s threadbare whisper was a mix of shock and horror.

She doubled over, trying to suck in a breath, but she looked like she had just been stabbed.

The hand that held her phone to her ear trembled.

She stammered, trying to regain her faculties, but all that came out was an animalistic cry.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she whispered, “No, no, no, no. Lisa?—”

“Hey,” I whispered as I eased off the bed and moved toward her. Tension knitted my brows together as I tried to figure out what the hell was happening.

Willow’s shoulders shook, and she dropped to her knees. One hand gripped the edge of the bed like it was a life raft tethered to a sinking ship.

The phone fell onto the carpeted floor. The timer logging the call still ticked away steadily.

Her eyes were glazed over, unseeing as she stared into nothingness.

I knelt beside her, listening to the way her breath was coming in a choppy, staccato rhythm. She was in shock.

My hand on her back must have been the touch that brought her back to the present. All at once, she shattered in curdling cries, reaching for me as she collapsed into my chest.

“Baby, what happened?” I asked softly as I held her tightly.

She gasped for air, her sobs punctuated by hiccups. “H-h-he’s d-dead.”

“Who?”

“ Shep .” The name alone was painful for her to say. She gasped for air as tears soaked into my t-shirt.

Holy shit. She had just told me about him the other day. They texted all the time. She had just been on the phone with him while we walked to the laundromat. Shep was her idol. I could see it in the way she spoke about him and to him.

My fingers sunk into her soft, rosy hair, cradling her head to my chest. Willow’s fingers tightened, grappling to keep hold of me. But I wasn’t going anywhere.

I settled on the floor, sitting up against the foot of the bed with Willow between my knees. I handed her the phone and held her close as she talked to Lisa in barely coherent sentences. After a few minutes, she hung up and buried herself in me.

I said nothing while she cried.

Sometimes there are no words that should be said. There is no reasoning that can explain away the hurt or heartbreak. Sometimes life just sucks. It’s uncomfortable to sit with someone in the midst of their pain. It’s awkward.

But so is grief.

It rips out our identities. In an instant, who you were is not who you are. And who you were is a person you will never be again.

Grief changes us at an elemental level. There is no return to normal.

It’s a tattoo the bereft must bear whether they want to or not.

Sure, it can be covered. It can be masked.

It will age and morph with each passing day, fading into something unrecognizable at times.

But it never goes away. When you strip away the tapestries, it’s scrawled across the walls.

I had liked Willow before her grief. Now, I would get to fall in love with someone new. It would be an honor to meet her, just like it was an honor to hold her through the transformation.

“I have to go,” Willow stammered as shock melted into mania. She grabbed her phone and ended the call without a goodbye. “I—I have to finish packing and get gas and?—”

“Slow down. Breathe,” I said as I helped her to her feet, then gently pushed her to sit on the edge of the bed. “What happened?”

Tears welled in her eyes again as devastation set in.

“He . . . He was driving his rig. It was raining really hard. Someone stopped short and”—she clapped her hand over her mouth as gut-wrenching cries peeled free—“he couldn’t stop.

He tried to change lanes and turned too hard, and the load was too heavy, and it flipped the semi off the shoulder and rolled it down an embankment.

Lisa—his wife”—Willow hiccupped—“got the call.”

I stayed on my knees, putting us eye to eye, and pulled her into my chest. My mouth grazed her temple. “I’m so sorry, Wills. So fucking sorry. Tell me what you need done right now. Tell me how to help you.”

But instead of leaning on me a second longer, she pushed away. “I have to get home. I need to be with my family. I have to go. Now.”

I glanced at the bedside clock. It was nearly dinnertime.

I wasn’t sure where we were going, but I had an inkling it wasn’t anywhere near New York City.

“Okay. Traffic’s gonna be backed up for a few hours.

We can pack, get some dinner, rest a little, and leave around midnight. It’ll give us the easiest drive.”

“I don’t have hours,” she snapped, masking her fear with anger. “I need to go now. It’s a long drive.”

“Where are we going?”

“ We are not going anywhere. I am going.”

“I mean this in the nicest way possible, but you shouldn’t be driving right now, Willow.”

“I don’t care what you think!” she shouted as tears rolled down her cheeks. “This isn’t a game anymore!”

It was never a game. Not for me, anyway. But now wasn’t the time to mention that.

“You’re right,” I said as I carefully laid my hands on her arms. “It’s not a game.

For me, it’s my livelihood. I have to prove it’s legitimate.

That’s not a game to me. But I don’t give a shit about that right now.

If you’re going to travel by yourself, I’m putting you on a plane.

But if you’re insistent on driving after that kind of news, then I’m coming with you.

” I cupped her cheeks and brushed away her tears.

“You can send me home when I know you got there safely.”

Willow closed her eyes and leaned in to my touch. “I’m scared of flying. I have to take a pill to keep from having panic attacks, and I don’t have any right now.”

I pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Then where are we driving?”

“Manhattan.”

I pulled back and gave her a curious look. “Baby, I don’t know if you know this, but you can see the Empire State Building right outside your window.”

Willow cracked a slight smile. “Manhattan, Kansas. ”