Page 14

FOURTEEN

RYDER

I was so focused on kissing Emily that I wouldn’t have heard that plane coming until it was right over my head. Hell, I probably wouldn’t have noticed unless it landed on my head.

Luckily for me, she’s still got her wits about her, and we rush to hide, terrified that the plane holds Sinclair or his morally inept goons.

“Wait!” she says when we near the edge of the pond, water splashing everywhere as we haul ass toward dry land. “What if that’s someone who could help us? Like a ranger or a tourist plane?”

I glance from the seaplane back to her. “What if it’s not?”

She bites her lip, seemingly trying to decide how much of a risk she wants to take, and then she swears and sprints out of the pond. We grab our clothes and our packs, my teeth chattering as we hurry for the woods and duck behind a pine tree. I throw my clothes back on hurriedly, holding my breath as the seaplane zooms overhead and disappears into the distance.

“If that was the Girl Scouts and we missed our one chance at rescue,” Emily says, panting as she yanks her socks on, “I will never forgive either of us.”

“Hey, we’re gonna make it off this island,” I assure her, reaching for her hand, but she pulls away quickly.

“Let’s just get moving.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” I watch as she sweeps her curls into a bun, all the softness she showed me in the pond gone from her face. “Hey, are we okay?”

She sighs in exasperation. “No, Ryder, we are not okay! As we both clearly forgot for a moment back there, this is not some spring break adventure in Miami. We need to focus on getting to safety, not…” she trails off, not looking at me. “Whatever that was.”

Whatever that was was the hottest, most intense kiss of my life, and to hear Emily speak of it so dismissively hurts my feelings even more than it bruises my ego.

“Fine,” I say, trying to keep my face neutral. “Let’s go.”

She frowns at her compass and points into the woods. “The ranger station is this way. I think.”

She takes off without waiting for me to reply, and I jog to catch up with her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, falling into step beside her. “Because, you know, I didn’t plan for that to—”

“I know you didn’t plan for that to happen, Ryder. We don’t need to have a big discussion about it.”

The abruptness of her tone catches me off guard. “Okay, well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” she says, adjusting her shoulder straps. “I just don’t want to end up maimed or murdered because I was too distracted to pay attention to my surroundings.”

She tucks a curl behind her ear, and I can’t help but remember the feeling that came over me when I took her hand in mine and pressed it to my face. I felt cared for, connected, like I could fight off a hundred growling wolves and a whole army of Sinclairs screaming about Harvard if she would just keep touching me. Like I was more than a down-on-his-luck has-been with more bad jokes than brain cells.

Like I was a guy she might consider worthy of her. Like I was the guy. But apparently that feeling, like her affection, was fleeting.

“Okay,” I say, tensing my jaw. “I’ll do my best not to be a distraction.”

She opens her mouth like she’s going to respond, but instead, she winces.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Huh? Nothing.”

“I just saw you wince,” I tell her. “Which typically indicates that someone is in pain.”

“I’m fine,” she insists, waving me off.

“Sure. And I’m a Fulbright Scholar.”

She rolls her eyes, but we only make it another few steps before she flinches and reaches down to grab her right boot.

“Emily?” I ask, my stomach twisting at the grimace on her face. “What’s going on?”

“It’s my ankle.” She lets out a frustrated groan. “I rolled it when we got out of the pond. It’s probably just a sprain. I’m sure I can walk it off.”

“I’m not,” I say when she takes another step, the pain evident on her face. “Here, let me see.”

I crouch to examine her ankle before she can protest.

“You’re bleeding,” I say, studying a shallow wound just below her calf.

“I ran through some thorns. It’s fine.”

She bites her lip in a way that indicates she is very not fine, and I motion for her pack. “Give me one of your bandages and I’ll wrap it, at least.”

“We don’t have any bandages. I left them on the beach with Sharp.”

“Well then, there’s only one solution.” I stand up and take off my shirt wordlessly, then bend down to tie it around her calf.

“Ryder!” she says as if she’s positively scandalized. “ That’s your one solution?”

“Emily!” I echo, doing my best imitation of her. “What seems to be the problem?”

She shoots me a dark look. “You can’t just go around whipping your shirt off to use as a makeshift bandage!”

I raise an eyebrow at her as I complete my work. “Why not? It’s jersey knit. That’s, like, the softest of the T-shirt fabrics.”

“Because it’s indecent .” She blushes, and I don’t miss the glance she sneaks at my torso.

“And you can’t just kneel there in front of me like that, like…”

“Like what?” I ask innocently, though I know exactly what she means. The thought crossed my mind, too, that this is the position I’d assume if I were to press my mouth to her most sensitive part. I’d start slowly, of course, with soft kisses to her inner thigh, and then I’d take my time as I grazed her with the stubble of my beard, relishing the feel of her as I worked my way up to—

“Stand up, please,” Emily says, yanking me to my feet. The exertion throws her off balance, and she grabs my arm to catch herself.

“That better?” I ask, gripping her hips to steady her.

“No.” Her gaze scales up my chest and lingers on my mouth. “Frankly, it’s actually much worse.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I was talking about your ankle, Edwards.”

She shakes her head as if pulling herself out of a trance. “Right. Sure. I guess the T-shirt does help it sting less.”

“See?” I say brightly. “Jersey knit. Now hop on.” Turning away from her, I pat the back of my shoulder twice.

“Hop on?” she repeats, incredulous. “What are you talking about?”

I roll my eyes, because the answer is obvious. “I’m giving you a piggyback ride.”

“Thanks, but you most certainly are not.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m a grown woman, not a tuckered-out child.”

I turn around to face her again. “Might I remind you that we’re fleeing a bunch of bad guys on foot? So as much as I admire your independence, I can’t afford to let you move at the pace of a dying snail. Hop on.” I tap my back again.

She rolls her eyes. “Please stop trying to make me mount you. I can walk just fine.”

“ Mount me?” I can’t help but smirk at her. “Well, well, well, look who’s being indecent now.”

A look of pure determination on her face, she ignores me and proceeds to hobble along the rocky trail, wincing.

“Look, why are you so mad at me?” I ask when she flinches with every step. “Why won’t you let me help?”

Emily sucks in her breath, annoyed. “I’m not mad at you, Ryder. I’m mad at myself.”

“Mad at yourself for what, exactly?”

“For what we did back there!” she says, gesturing wildly toward the pond. “For letting my guard down long enough that we could have gotten killed. For getting mixed up—figuratively and as of ten minutes ago, literally—with someone who makes absolutely no sense for me.”

Her words strike a tender nerve. “Sure seemed like we made sense together in the pond.”

“Ryder,” she says, “come on.”

I shake my head. “I get it. You think we don’t make sense because I’m not like the guys you normally date. Well, you’re right. I’m not an anesthesiologist or a snobby professor. I didn’t go to Harvard or Stanford or one of the other Ivies. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t something here.”

I point to her and back to me, and she looks at me for a moment before returning her gaze to the trail in front of us.

“Stanford isn’t an Ivy League school.”

I shrug. “I thought it was.”

“It’s not,” she says, wincing as the trail gets steeper. “There are eight Ivies, and Stanford isn’t one of them. Neither is Northwestern, which is also commonly mistaken for—”

“Oh my God, who cares?” I cut in, my hurt and frustration bubbling over. “Look, it’s fine. We both know what the issue is. You don’t have to admit it out loud.”

“Admit what out loud?”

“That you think I’m a brainless, unsophisticated idiot, and that’s why we don’t make sense together.”

She stops hobbling and puts her hands on her hips, her chest heaving from exertion.

“What?”

I hold up my hands. “I’m just saying, I get it, okay? You’re better than me. You’re smart, I’m dumb. You’re right, I’m wrong. I’m big, you’re little. I get it. It’s gotten. Message received.”

She wrinkles her forehead in confusion as she resumes limping along. “What the…were you misquoting Matilda , the book by Roald Dahl?”

“No,” I say, my tone indignant. “I’m quoting Matilda the movie by Danny DeVito. Which, might I add, is far superior to the book.”

I can practically see her brain imploding.

“Come again?”

“I said the movie is better than the book, Edwards! And I know you think I’m not qualified to judge, since I happen to like Shel Silverstein poems instead of whatever fancy-nancy shit they read at Harvard, but oh well.”

“For your information,” she says in a tone that can only be described as seething, “Fancy Nancy is a children’s series about an exuberant young girl who loves all things fancy.”

It’s got to be the first time in human history that someone’s snarled while saying the word fancy , but Emily’s not done.

“And I can assure you,” she continues, “that they don’t read it at Harvard. Regardless, I would never judge you for liking Shel Silverstein poems. I loved Where the Sidewalk Ends .”

“It doesn’t change the fact that women like you don’t go for guys like me.”

“Women like me? What is that supposed to mean?” she asks, tripping over a loose rock and waving me away when I try to assist her.

I gesture at her as I duck to avoid smacking my head on a low-hanging branch.

“You know, ambitious, accomplished, so type A that you separate your whites and colors and actually have a favorite documentary.”

“Uh, separating your whites and colors isn’t a type A thing to do,” she says. “That’s just being civilized. And everybody has a favorite documentary!”

“No, they don’t!” I insist, ready to rip my hair out in frustration. “Everybody pretends to have a favorite documentary, and then they go home and watch Monday Night Football like a normal person!”

“So you’re saying I’m not a normal person?” she asks, looking like she’d relish the chance to bear-spray me in the face again.

“Of course you’re not a normal person, Emily!” I groan, running a hand through my hair. “You’re not even close to being normal. You’re way beyond normal. You’re…” I pause, trying to figure out how to put my impression of her into words. “Exceptional.”

I cough, pounding my chest as if I can dislodge the ball of emotion swelling there. Because she is exceptional, and Caleb was, too, and I never deserved either one of them. At least Emily is smart enough to know it.

“I…you think I’m exceptional?” she asks, her face softening.

“Obviously!” I smack a mosquito that landed on my arm in frustration. “You’re a gorgeous doctor who saves lives. You charged toward danger to try to save a dying man, not to mention you traveled to this absolute hellhole of an island to honor your dad. So of course I think you’re exceptional!”

Emily watches me, her mouth half-open.

“Thank you,” she says finally, her tone warmer than it’s been since we left the pond. “I think. I mean, you were giving me a compliment, but you were also kind of yelling, so it was a little bit confusing, but—”

“ I wasn’t yelling,” I say, lowering my voice. “ You were yelling.”

“I was not yelling, Ryder! I was merely speaking loudly, with emotion, as one does when someone has the nerve to say that Matilda was better as a movie than a book.”

I knew she wouldn’t let that comment go unchecked, and it burns me up that that’s what she took away from everything I said.

“Believe it or not, some people like movies better!” I say tersely. “Okay? Some people like comic strips and mispronounce words and haven’t saved ten lives every day by noon, and that’s okay. And if that makes me a himbo in your eyes, so be it. I don’t care.”

My voice cracks on the last word, betraying the fact that I actually care a hell of a lot, and I grab a clean shirt out of my pack and yank it over my head.

Emily freezes mid-step. “Hang on. Who said anything about being a himbo?”

I stop, too, locking gazes with her. “You did. On the ferry, remember?”

“You heard that?”

My heart sinks at her words, because a part of me was hoping that she would deny it. That what Sinclair told me when he grabbed the Discman was just a big fat lie.

“No,” I say, the truth settling in my stomach like a rock. “Your dreamy Harvard archaeologist told me.”

Sighing, she runs a hand over her face. “Ugh. Ryder, I’m so sorry. I said that to Killian shortly after you jumped on the ship, and I was feeling totally out of sorts. I didn’t mean it.” She frowns. “I mean, I half did at the time, but that was before I knew you. And it had a lot more to do with how I was feeling about this trip than anything you did.”

I listen but don’t respond, because I don’t know what to say. Her insult tapped into a long-held insecurity about my intellectual prowess—or lack thereof—and it stings despite my attempts to shrug it off.

“Besides,” Emily adds after a moment, “it was kind of a compliment, if you think about it. People love himbos! Himbos are fun and sexy and kind. They’re like the golden retrievers of men. And people adore golden retrievers! There’s a reason they’re one of the most popular dogs in America.”

“Shockingly, being compared to a dog doesn’t make me feel that much better.”

“I don’t mean that you’re like a dog.” She motions toward me, shaking her head. “I mean that it’s impossible for me not to like you.”

That does sound a bit better, and I perk up at the compliment.

“You really think I’m sexy?”

She rolls her eyes so hard it’s a wonder she doesn’t strain them. “Shut up. We both know you look like Thor and kiss like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.”

My ego’s bouncing back pretty quickly now, thanks to her praise of my kissing skills, and I raise an eyebrow at her.

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

“Because!” Her voice is strained. “Because I know that you don’t see me the same way.”

I blink at her, trying to make sense of her words. I know I haven’t crafted her any dazzling love poems, but you’d think kissing her and calling her exceptional might give Emily a clue that I’m seriously into her.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask.

“I heard what you said to Killian on the trail.” She fiddles with the shirt tied around her ankle, not looking at me. “You said you don’t look at me any way. You look at me like you look at a tree, right? That’s what you told him.”

She kicks a pebble, sending it flying, and I hate the hurt written in her warm gray eyes. I try to recall the dumb shit I said to Sinclair in the heat of the moment, and I wish I could hop in a time machine and snatch the words back.

Actually, I wish I could hop in a time machine and kick Killian Sinclair’s ass.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” I say, taking a step toward her.

She nods. “Obviously.”

“No, I mean, you weren’t supposed to hear that because I never should have said it. I didn’t mean it. At all.”

“Then why did you say it?” she asks, and the tinge of hurt she’s trying to hide from her voice makes me want to punch myself right in the jaw.

“Because I was embarrassed,” I admit, hating myself for what I said and Sinclair for egging me on to say it. “Sinclair was giving me shit about how you’d only ever see me as a himbo, and I wanted to get him off my back. Besides, the guy’s a menace to society, but he wasn’t wrong. He’s much more your type than I am.”

She gawks at me. “You think a lying, deceitful coward who besmirches the good name of archaeology is my type?”

“Obviously I don’t think he’s your type now , but it sure seemed that way for a while. I mean, you guys spent the whole ferry ride together. And you kissed.”

“ He kissed me ,” Emily says, shaking her head. “Look, if I’m being completely honest, did I initially find him charming? Yes. Impressive? Yes. And did I find you somewhat reckless and think to myself, Now here’s a guy who has never used a coaster of his own volition ? Also yes.”

I could do with hearing a little less about Sinclair’s charm.

“I use coasters,” I say defensively. “On occasion.”

“The point is, I was wrong about Killian. And I was wrong about you. I don’t see you as a himbo, Ryder.” She looks down at her ankle and then up at me, blushing shyly. “I see you as my protector.”

Her words are a salve to the wound in my heart that I’ve been trying to heal with booze and isolation and too many old episodes of Dexter’s Laboratory , and I want nothing more than to live up to that role. To protect her. To be there for someone I care about instead of letting them down the way I did Caleb.

“For what it’s worth,” I tell her, “I mean it with every single fiber of my being when I say that I don’t look at you the way I look at a tree.” I pause, hearing myself out loud. “And yes, I do realize that’s the stupidest sentence ever constructed.”

I meant the last part in jest, but Emily doesn’t laugh or even smile.

“Then how do you look at me?” she asks instead.

I study her, trying to figure out how to answer. I’ve always been a man of action more than words, and I wish I could show her instead of tell her—wish I could lift her up and carry her into my bedroom to demonstrate exactly how I look at her. I wish I could take a steaming hot shower with her, help her wash off all the layers of worry and dirt and exhaustion, and then bend down to nudge her legs open and show her with my tongue.

I wish.

“Do you really want to know?” I ask, taking another step toward Emily as she tilts her head up toward me. Her eyes are searching, wanting, and it’s all I can do not to take her into my arms and kiss her.

“Yes,” she says. “I do.”

But I don’t get the chance to tell her. Because just as I open my mouth to tell her the truth, a man so gigantic he makes me look petite pops out from behind a spruce tree.

“Hey, lovebirds,” he says, grinning at us. “I’ve been looking for you.”

And then he pulls out a gun.