Page 14 of When I Had You

“I was wrong.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “The great Cash Ryan is admitting fault? Wait, let me get my phone to record this confession. Oh, wait . . . I can’t film because my phone is broken.” Her glare locks on mine under a demandingly arched brow.

“We need to cut the Ryan shit.”

“What are we going to do, then, Mr. Big Shot?” The corners of her lips tilt upward. The vixen.

“As for the phone, are you really that upset? It was an accident.”

“You’re really not going to admit you did it on purpose?”

She makes everything tempting, like a siren calling her prey to drown in the darkest depths of the ocean. “I’m good.”

“Interesting,” she replies.

The hint of attitude I detect in her tone makes me grin. Her sadness may soften my harsher comments, but her confidence is fucking spectacular.

The car stops, and the hotel valet staff opens both back doors at the same time. “Welcome back, Mr. Ryatt.”

“Thank you.” I step out of the vehicle, button my jacket, and wait for Marina to come around to escort her inside. A promise is a promise, even if she doesn’t believe I should keep it.

She walks straight past me as she heads toward the lobby. “Okay, then.” Shoving my hands in my pockets, I drop my eyes to the ground in front of me, hoping no cameras are around to spy. When I enter the hotel, Marina waits by a huge vase of flowers in the center of the lobby. My heart beats. My heart . . . beats. I feel alive at the very sight of her—the same as when I’m behind the wheel.

I smile like the luckiest fucker in the world walking toward my girl. Marina Westcott is not mine to claim in title or otherwise, disappointingly.

My sleeve is tugged, causing me to stop and look behind me.

“Sign for me, Cash?” a kid asks, holding a room key card and a marker toward me. He can’t be much older than Cullen, six or seven years old at most. Scanning the area, I try to find the kid’s parents since he’s too young to be alone.

Donning a Westcott Racing hat, the dad steps closer with caution. “Sorry, hope you don’t mind,” he says. “We’re big fans and here for the race this weekend.”

“Happy to sign for the kid. Thanks for coming.” I take the Sharpie and sign the key card before waving it to let it dry. When I hand it back, I rub the kid’s head, messing up his hair. Though I’m sure Cullen will get annoyed if I keep doing that to him when he’s a teen, he still finds it funny for now. So does the kid who giggles, then shows his dad my signature.

He jumps up and down. “Thanks, Cash Ryatt.”

Kneeling, I ask, “What’s your name, and how old are you?”

“Ryan.” I almost want to laugh since I’m a Ryan as well, according to a certain beautiful and frustrating woman I just met. “I’m six this weekend.”

“Happy birthday, Ryan. My son is five, six at the end of the season.” It’s been a week since I’ve seen him, and I can’t wait to get back to New York City to hang with my little buddy again.

The kid asks, “Does he like cars?”

“Unfortunately, he does.” I grin. “Fast ones, like his dad.”

“My dad drives a minivan.”

I glance up at his father and chuckle before turning back to Ryan. “Safest vehicles on the road. Shows you how much he cares about you.” I stand. “I need to get going, but it was nice meeting you, Ryan.” I shake his hand and then his dad’s. We take a quick photo together. I hear the kid oohing and aahing when they walk away. Kids are the best, so pure in their joy. I miss that. I miss my son even more.

When I turn around, the vase of flowers is still there, but Marina’s gone. I don’t know why I stand there staring like she might reappear, but it takes me a few seconds to realize she’s left.

That’s too bad. I was quite enjoying getting to know her better.

Red flag, Ryatt.

Red fucking flag.

I reach the elevator and punch the button. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I tap the screen to see a photo of my son. We had fun that day at the park. He treated me like his hero instead of how the rest of the world views me. I can live with the bad reputation. That’s a consequence of behaving badly, no matter if it’s justified at that moment. History doesn’t look kindly upon me.

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