Page 34 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

Charley

I ’m not entirely sure what’s going through Rip’s mind as we walk the sandy path back to the cottage.

We’re both running on fumes after a full day of sunshine, fried food, and carnival chaos.

Yet, there’s this low, pleasant hum in my chest, equal parts fatigue and the giddy knowledge that I’ll be crawling into bed with Big Bear tonight.

Rip bumps my shoulder. “Something on your mind?” he asks, his voice low and warm, as we lag behind Emma and her grandmother.

Emma looks like she’s about to fold in half from exhaustion.

Honestly, same. But there’s a tiny thrill bubbling under the tired, a fizzy little reminder that there’s only one bed back at the cottage. Again.

I shrug, playful. “I could ask you the same. Ever since the hot dog stand, you’ve been giving me weird looks. Is it indigestion?

He chuckles, deep and rich. “No, just been practicing the alphabet.”

I blink. “The alphabet?”

He bites his bottom lip. Oh, alphabet.

My body reacts like I just got zapped. “Ripley Hart,” I hiss, slapping his arm. “Stop it.”

He only laughs harder. “Don’t act like you’re not a fan of oral… literacy, Goldilocks.”

I groan, partly because of his terrible pun and partly because I now can’t think of anything but the letterG. “You’re a menace to society.”

“And yet, you keep walking home with me.”

Ahead of us, the sun dips low, golden light bouncing off the water in a way that that makes me sleepier…happier. Emma looks over her shoulder, eyes heavy, limbs dragging.

“Are we going to have a fire and sing songs?” she asks, her voice hopeful even as she covers a massive yawn with one small hand.

Rip slows, rests his hand at the small of my back. It’s warm. Steady.

I glance at Emma’s grandmother, but she beats me to it. “Might be better tomorrow,” she says gently. “Tonight, I think we’re all about to collapse.”

Emma pouts for a second, then rallies with a noble shrug. “Charley, will you read me a bedtime story?”

The question surprises me, and warms something in my chest I didn’t even know was cold. “I… sure. If that’s okay?” I glance at Betsy for permission, not wanting to overstep.

She smiles. “Might be nice. Get a feel for what it’ll be like when you two…” She waggles a finger between us. “…have your own brood.”

“Brood?” Rip echoes, brows lifting as he turns to me with mock horror. “You never mentioned a brood.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes.

He taps his temple, pretending to calculate. “How many kids does a brood involve? Like… twelve? Sixteen? Are we talking hockey team or full marching band?”

Betsy snorts. “You keep talking like that and she’ll give you a whole damn orchestra.”

I clutch my stomach, laughing so hard I nearly double over. “Okay, first of all, I’m not agreeing to anything that involves matching uniforms or recorders.”

Rip grins, eyes twinkling. “So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

He looks so adorable my heart does a full somersault. Without even thinking, I give his hand a gentle squeeze. The smile I get in return is so warm, it could toast marshmallows.

“Oh, Rip,” Emma scolds, hands on her hips. “It’s just a saying.”

“That girl is too wise for her age,” he mutters under his breath.

Emma straightens, glowing with pride. “I heard that.”

“Ears like her grandmother,” Rip adds, grinning.

Betsy, a few paces ahead, lifts her chin with matching sass. “ I heard that.”

Rip throws his hands up in mock defeat. “You know what? I’m just going to stop talking entirely.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, light and full of sunshine. “That’d be my suggestion.”

We reach our cottage, and I reluctantly let go of his hand. “I won’t be long.”

He leans in, aiming for a kiss, but our hats bump like two awkward teens on a first date. He growls in frustration, snatches both off, and plants one on me, soft, unexpected, and hot enough to melt every bit of candy I ate today.

“You better not be,” he murmurs against my lips.

“Rip, can you read to me too?” Emma asks, eyes round and hopeful, wielding the full force of childhood charm. No man could survive it. Not even Ripley Hart.

He sighs, already lost. “Sure. What’s your favorite book?”

Emma frowns. “I don’t have a lot of books here. Just baby ones.” She rolls her eyes.

“Hey, nothing wrong with classics,” Rip says.

We follow Emma past our cottage into Betsy’s, where she immediately grabs both our hands and tugs us toward her bedroom. She flops onto her narrow single bed and pats the space on either side of her.

Rip stares at the tiny mattress, and I can almost hear his brain working as he calculates the space. “Uh… how exactly are we all supposed to fit on that?”

Emma blinks at him like he’s the village idiot. “Don’t be silly, Rip.”

I hide a smile as he slowly, reluctantly lowers himself beside her, limbs dangling off the sides. I head to the bookshelf, scanning until a familiar title jumps out and makes me grin.

But then—my smile falters.

From the kitchen, I hear Betsy humming. The tune drifts through the house like a breeze. It’s a melody I know well. Too well. I played it on The Spotlight. It wasn’t just a song—it was my song.

I freeze.

Panic flares in my chest. What are the odds? It’s on the radio, sure, but still...

Rip eyes me, sensing the shift. My shoulders tense, but I force myself to inhale, then exhale through my nose. Yoga breath. In. Out. Count four.

It’s just a coincidence. It has to be.

I don’t believe in coincidences, of course. And up until Rip, I didn’t believe in fairy tales either.

Feeling steadier, I pluck the book off the shelf and turn to them, holding it up. “How about this one?”

Rip glances over, then groans. He's half on the bed, half off, looking adorable and ridiculous all at once. I burst out laughing.

“Oh yeah, super comfortable,” he says flatly.

Emma nods with dramatic maturity. “Yes. It will have to do.”

There’s a spark in her eyes though. She’s trying to play it cool, like fairy tales are beneath her now, but she’s all in. I walk over and show the cover. Rip’s eyes meet mine, and a slow, mischievous smile forms.

“Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” he says, voice low and suggestive. “My fav.”

Emma turns to him, wide-eyed. “Really? That’s your favorite?”

He shrugs. “Of course. It’s a classic. Never gets old.”

With Emma now blissfully content, I take off my hat and slide into the tiny bed on her other side, careful not to elbow anyone in the face.

I start reading, and it doesn’t take long before her heavy lids begin to flutter like she’s fighting off sleep just to prove she’s still part of the conversation. But honestly, I’m right there with her.

There’s this strange, wonderful feeling blooming in my chest, a cozy warmth that feels suspiciously like longing.

A child nestled between us, two grown-ups sharing a book like it’s our normal, nightly routine.

Like once the story ends, we’ll tiptoe down the hallway, climb into bed, and fall asleep wrapped around each other while the stars do their thing outside.

And the wildest part is, I want it. All of it. The bedtime stories. The whispered goodnights. The togetherness. I finish reading, and Emma lets out a sleepy little sigh.

“Again?” she mumbles hopefully, already halfway to dreamland.

From the doorway, Betsy’s voice cuts through like a bedtime enforcer. “No, not again. It’s late, and someone still has to wash up before bed.”

Emma rubs at her eyes and yawns. “Okay. Thanks, Charley. Thanks, Rip.”

I slide off the bed to make room for her, and as she scoots across the mattress and around the bed, apparently makes contact with Rip’s baby toe.

“Oof!” he grunts dramatically, toppling sideways like a sack of hockey gear.

Emma giggles as she darts toward the bathroom, not the least bit sorry.

Betsy shakes her head, watching us like we’re the entertainment portion of her evening tea. “I made tea,” she says.

“Thanks,” I reply, as I stifle a yawn. “But I think we’re going to call it a night too. It’s been a full day.”

She gives us a warm, knowing smile. “Thank you for being so kind to Emma. She absolutely adores you both.”

“We adore her too,” I say, and glance behind me to see what’s taking Rip so long.

That’s when I realize he’s still sprawled dramatically on the floor like he’s auditioning for a one-man Shakespearean tragedy. For a second I think maybe he’s injured, but nope. He hops to his feet like he’s just remembered he has urgent business.

And he does.Between my legs. Heat rushes to my face so fast I’m surprised I don’t steam up the windows. Betsy doesn’t miss it either. Her eyes glint with mischief as she smirks.

“Well,” she says, shooing us toward the door like a fairy godmother. “I won’t keep you from bed.”

We step outside, and just as I think we’ve escaped with our dignity intact, she raps twice on the wall with her knuckles. “Yup. Still thin.”

“Oh. My. God,” I groan, laughing as Rip groans beside me. He wraps a strong arm around my waist and hauls me close.

“She’s going to be the death of me,” he mutters.

“You?” I say. “I’ll never be able to make eye contact with her again.”

A few short minutes later, we’re back at our own cottage. The moment the door clicks shut and the lock turns, I feel it…him. That charged silence before the storm.

Rip pins me to the door, his body warm and firm against mine, his eyes simmering with enough heat to raise the ocean’s temperature a few degrees.

“Rip,” I whisper, but that’s all I manage before his mouth is on mine, hungry, hot, and achingly sure. This isn’t the usual heat between us. There’s something deeper here. Something raw and restless. His hands are reverent, his kisses slower but no less intense.

“I want you,” he breathes into my mouth, voice low and rough. “Today was… incredible. I wouldn’t trade a single second. But thinking about being alone with you all day…” He trails off, pressing his forehead to mine. “It’s been killing me.”

He groans, like eventalkingabout it physically pains him. “Fuck, girl,” he murmurs.