Page 30 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

“Maybe it’s not a good idea for me to go back to Boston with you,” she says.

The words punch me so hard I forget how to breathe. My heart clenches, all fight-or-flight kicking in. “No,” I say quickly, too quickly.

She hears it wrong.

“Right,” she nods, backing up, putting space between us. “No, I won’t go back. I won’t come between?—”

“Charley, no.” I’m up on my feet, pulling her toward me, tangling my hand in her hair. “No, as in I don’t like what you’re saying. I want you to come back. I want…”

God.

I want everything. I want her in my apartment, her voice in my mornings, her laugh in my bed. I want her songs floating through my kitchen.

But can I say that?

Can I ask for that kind of everything from a woman who just got burned by fame, trust, and love all at once? And what about me? I haven’t even really broken things off with Lyra. She still texts. I still check her socials.

So I settle for words that won’t terrify either of us. “I want you to,” I say simply.

She studies me for a moment. “Tell me something,” she says. “What is Lyra looking for from you? You said she must need something.” Before I can even breathe out an answer, she asks, “Do you always give her what she needs?”

I groan, the sound rough and heavy. “Pretty much.”

Because that’s who I’ve been, a guy unable to turn his back on a woman in need, a woman I once gave my heart to—even if it’s not in my best interest. But not this time. Charley—indie Rhodes—is the only story here in Connecticut, and there’s no fucking way I’m letting Lyra near that.

Before I can say more, we hear, “Knock, knock.” Mrs. Callahan breezes back into the cottage. She stops when she sees us, Charley flushed, me flustered, and her eyes narrow with curiosity.

“You two at it again?” she asks. But when neither of us speak or move, her gaze softens, like she just realized she walked into the middle of something important and is trying not to stomp all over it with her orthopedic shoes. “I can come back,” she offers, a rare moment of grace.

“No, it’s okay,” Charley says, forcing a smile. “We were just talking about the wedding.”

Mrs. Callahan beams. “You are going to be a gorgeous bride, Charley.” Then she turns to me and her entire face hardens into a scowl so fierce I wonder if she was a drill sergeant in another life. “We’ll have to see howwell you clean up,” she mutters.

But I see it, the glint in her eye, the almost-smile she’s hiding under her mock judgment. She might give me hell, but she’s rooting for us.

Dammit, I think I’m rooting for us too.

With that Mrs. Callahan makes a beeline for Charley, and captures her hand.

“This is a promise ring,” she announces.

“Just temporary.” She gives a wink, and my heart studders because I’m suddenly wondering if she knows what’s really going on here, sees through the ruse…

sees what I feel. “Until you get yours back.”

She opens her palm, and there it is, a delicate little gold ring sitting inside a tiny black box.

Charley blinks, then steps back like the thing might bite. “What? No. I can’t wear that.”

“Whose ring is that?” I ask.

Betsy’s whole face softens, her eyes going a little misty.

“It was given to me by a very good friend,” she says, voice gentle now.

“After I lost William all those years ago, I never thought I’d find happiness again.

Never thought I’d hear music.” Charley goes still beside me, the way you do when you sense someone’s about to hand you a story they don’t share often.

“But Carl,” Betsy goes on, her eyes getting distant, “He brought the song back. He made me laugh again. We never got the chance to get married. Life had other plans. But the ring…” She trails off, staring at the little circle in her hand. “This ring reminded me I could still feel joy.”

And then she looks right at Charley.

“You brought music back to me too, Charley,” she says, her voice cracking. “Now you’re teaching Emma the joy of song. Soon she’ll be playing around the fire, singing like you do. You gave us that.”

Charley’s eyes are wide. She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Yes, but I can’t—” she tries.

“This would make him so happy,” Betsy says. “It would make mehappy.”

She blinks hard, trying to chase away the tears, but they shimmer anyway.

Then she holds the ring out...to me.

Oh, boy.

Charley turns to me, her eyes damp, wide, unsure.

I stare at the ring. It’s just a tiny loop of gold, but somehow it weighs a thousand pounds.

The thought of disappointing Betsy—and Carl, God rest is soul—sits in my gut like a brick.

So I take it. I reach for Charley’s hand, my fingers brushing hers. They’re trembling. Or maybe mine are.

“It’s just temporary,” I say, and try to read her face, to understand if she’s hearing what I’m saying, or what I’m not saying…or asking.

“Right,” she says softly, and her lashes fall like curtains over a storm of emotion. I slide the ring onto her finger. And my heart punches so hard against my ribs, I swear something cracks.

What the hell is happening?

Why does this feel so...right?

It’s a borrowed ring. A borrowed story. A borrowed identity.

A fairy tale that neither of us believed in.

But in this moment, it feels like the beginning of everything real.