Page 54 of About Yesterday (Foothills #5)
“Why are you out of breath?” his brother answered, not bothering with formalities.
“Missed my flight, but it’s okay, I caught another one.”
Grady’s voice lowered and he hissed into the phone, “Patricia is about to give herself an aneurism. You’re already two days late.”
“I know, I know. It was unavoidable.”
“I checked traffic between SeaTac and Foothills, and you should be clear.”
“Um… I’m in Portland.”
“What?”
“That’s all they had.” He turned at the sign pointing toward rentals and wove through a scattered cluster of lost tourists.
“You didn’t think to try another airline?”
“It’s spring break for half the schools in Arizona. I’m lucky I got the flight I got.”
“Just don’t get yourself killed making up time,” Grady muttered.
“I’ll be there,” Ryder said firmly. “I’m at the rental car desk. I’ll call you in an hour.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
Ryder stuffed his phone in his pocket and slid to a halt at the desk. “Hi. Ryder Mallory. I hope you have my information; I transferred my reservation from Seattle.”
Moving with music no one else could hear, the rental desk attendant didn’t respond, but started typing in sync with the inaudible tune. His red braid swished over his back, loose hairs littering the uniform black polo.
Ryder fisted his hand on the desk before he started tapping impatiently. Was he being ignored, or had the guy not noticed him? Smile lifting to match the man’s upbeat mood, Ryder debated repeating himself.
“Ryder Mallory. Gotcha.” So he had heard. Hands lifting dramatically for the big finish, the attendant rocked out the final notes and spun a screen toward him. “Sign a few hundred times for me, and I’ll get you on the road.”
Ryder flipped through the routine swiftly.
“Looks like the premium you reserved is not available. Would you prefer a minivan or an economy?”
Heart sinking lower, Ryder swallowed the grimace and winced pleasantly. “I’m in a huge hurry. Which is faster?”
“Assuming you won’t exceed the legal limit…” the guy said, still swaying as he dug out a key from the drawer. He passed it over and dangled it in front of Ryder. “The economy is going to be your friend.”
Ryder plucked the keys up and said, “Thanks.” He dashed out the door, and any hope of picking up lost time on the drive spilled all over the asphalt as a shiny orange covered-lawnmower pulled up. Fuck.
The next attendant left the door open and smiled brightly for the exchange.
At five-foot-ten, Ryder wasn’t exactly a giant, but he felt like it in the Micromachine.
He dumped his backpack in the back seat and laid his garment bag over the front passenger seat.
Folding his body into an origami-like contortion, he squeezed inside and felt around under the seat, finally finding the manual lever and slid the seat back so his knees didn’t straddle the steering wheel.
The engine was quiet, at least. He zipped out of the parking lot and made his way to the interstate. As soon as he hit sixty, the engine whined like a mosquito. And kept whining. The whole. Fucking. Drive.
An hour in, he called Grady. In the background, he heard delighted laughter and chatting, some familiar voices, and others he didn’t recognize.
Grady’s voice was strained, but he at least pretended to understand, even though Ryder knew he didn’t.
The quiet life had claimed Grady. Now a business partner for a small-town microbrewery, he was happily married to the love of his life—the woman had dumped Ryder for his blond, perfectly imperfect brother.
Ryder drew in a long breath and loosened his hands on the wheel. He wasn’t actually bitter about how things turned out. Claire was amazing, but they hadn’t had a damn thing in common, and he’d been a shitty boyfriend.
As soon as he got that promotion, the fat paycheck and executive hours, he could be a good brother. He’d say again, but fuck, they’d been little kids when he might have last achieved that accolade.
Once that promotion eased his schedule, he might even find a partner and be a decent boyfriend. Maybe even do the normal thing and have kids and a life; the things he’d planned on with Claire. The seltzer campaign had better be that golden ticket. Thirty-three years old, and he was done hustling.
Instead of shopping centers and factories and housing developments, he drove through miles upon miles of farmland. Instead of a flood of neon signs, he drove past a single, bizarre sign insulting the liberals in Olympia and something about global warming being a hoax. Charming.
Then the state capital itself, green and lovely. Mid-day, traffic was light. As he wove through Tacoma, the notorious paper mill aroma hit him, too late to turn the air on recirculate, and nothing but time could rescue his sense of smell.
Then Fife. Good to be home. Or not, but it was a good milestone. Traffic thickened and lanes widened, and he had to get creative, but he kept the buzzing engine steady as he exited.
Off I-5, finally on the eastward highway toward the mountains, he had to be creative to keep his pace up and combat the endless incline.
The highway widened again at the pass, just as he turned onto the next narrow highway.
Tucked into just this side of the Cascade Range, the sign for Foothills greeted him.
Trees stood thicker and taller than anything in Phoenix.
He reached across and unzipped his garment bag, alternating hands on the wheel, and slipped his arms into his button-up shirt. His tie had slipped off the hanger and was bunched at the bottom of the bag, irreparably wrinkled. Fuck it.
Foothills was absurdly beautiful and was being actively appreciated by half the damn state.
Instead of driving down the main drag through town, the eclectic shops, restaurants—including the pub owned by his soon-to-be brother-in-law and his family, the brewery his brother owned, and a lot of his former haunts, he turned onto the side streets and made his way to the long, winding road toward his mother and stepfather’s house.
Cedar and pine trees framed the driveway. A maple canopy dappled shade over the sunny spring day as he drove down the long driveway. Cars were parked along the sides of the drive and in the wide entrance, and he spotted the valet team waiting at the door. At least that was in his favor.
White pots, white flowers, pristine and virginal to match the uppity mansion his mother had moved into with his stepfather when Ryder was in college.
He shoved the pumpkin car into park and grabbed his jacket from the bag.
He tossed the keys to the valet and dashed into the house.
Glazed black doors stood twice his height, and he pushed them open and stepped onto the marble floor. High ceilings, more white—everywhere.
Quiet as a mouse.
Fuck. Had he missed it? He checked the time. Safe. Five minutes to spare. Photo. Fucking. Finish.
With his shoes on, despite his mother’s rules for the white carpeted room that was largely decorative and vacant, he dashed into the parlor and looked out the massive windows.
Guests were seated in neat rows, with colorful potted flowers outlining the edge of the central aisle.
A few propane heaters were set up throughout the yard to combat the spring chill, with more set out throughout the gardens to warm outdoor seating areas.
Clearly, his sister had let their mother do the entry, but Haley had warmed up everything else with her own style.
No wedding party up front, so he hadn’t missed it.
Ryder slipped into the navy jacket as he dashed down the hall and into the ballroom.
The wedding party was gathered inside, and the oversized French doors to the backyard were wide open while music played and the crowd settled.
Grady spotted him and didn’t move from his position, ready to walk. His brother shook his head and relaxed his shoulders with an odd combination of disbelief and relief, halfway between laughing and sighing.
Ryder dashed over and swung wide to stay out of sight of the guests.
The woman on Grady’s arm turned and immediately grinned widely as she spotted him.
He recognized everyone else, mostly. But her…
he would definitely have remembered her.
Dark hair cropped just above her shoulders with beachy waves that seemed to catch every wisp of breeze coming in the doors.
Toned as fuck arms, everything, she was absolutely an athlete.
Rich brown eyes that would win any argument, but make you not mind losing. Like a puppy, but not at all.
“Hey, Ryder,” she said with a playful tilt of her head.
What? Who the hell was she? The deep blue slip dress moved over her skin like water, the straps so narrow they might magically snap with the slightest breeze.
“Hi,” he said, squinting to get a focused look and figure out who the hell she was.
Before he could attempt to fail at flirting, so damn rusty at it, Grady opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head again.
“I’m here,” Ryder said, trying to slow his pulse down, but after the rush to get here, it was going to take a while. “I fucked up, but I’m here.”
Behind them, Trace Perry—wait, Trace Falk—stood with the next groomsman.
Haley’s childhood best friend, and the groom’s ex-girlfriend, oddly enough, Trace had been over enough that she was practically a sister.
She broke away from the others and wrapped him in a hug.
“You made it,” she said with pride and relief and an ounce of judgment.
“I wouldn’t miss it for anything, seriously,” he said, squeezing her back. If he’d missed it, all those plans to be a better brother would have crumbled beyond repair.
“You had us worried,” she said as she pulled back. “You had Haley worried.”
Fuck. “I am so sorry,” he said, guilt compressing over his chest. A million excuses, but they were all bullshit. “It’s good to see you, Trace,” he said as she stepped back into formation.