Page 29 of Stick Break
Her jaw drops again. “Rip, no. I can’t. That’s too much.”
I shift the guitar in my hands. “Okay, here’s the truth, Char. This gift? It’s not really for you.” I let out a long-suffering sigh. Her brow arches like she’s about to call me on my bullshit. “It’s for me,” I say solemnly before she gets the chance. “I’ve been doing some thinking. It’s incredibly selfish of me to keep this voice…” I pause and with both hands gesture to myself. “…confined to the shower. It’s time the world experienced the magic.” I nod toward the firepit. “Bonfire. S’mores. Guitar. This voice.”
She snorts. “Wow. That’s awfully generous of you, Rip.”
“I know. It’s a burden being this talented, but I persevere. So if you play… I’ll sing.”
Her grin hits me square in the chest and does dangerous things to my insides.
“Will there be moves?” she teases.
I gasp. “Charley, there will always be moves. So what do you say.”
She laughs, but her gaze softens as her fingers brush the guitar’s neck. “You kind of had me at magical,” she says. “But moves? That was like an overtime goal. I didn’t stand a chance.”
“Hockey metaphor.” I cock my head and take in the warmth on her cheeks. “Thought you weren’t into hockey.”
“I’m not…” Her words fall off as she blinks at me, like she could actually be into me.
Dammit.
I might actually be into her, too.
But I’m off bunnies and bridesmaids, as I try to work through whatever it is I have with Lyra.
Ah, but she’s not either of those things dude.
8
Charley
I finish up the last of the dishes while Rip fusses with something outside. Since he handled dinner, I volunteered for cleanup duty. Normally, I’d let the mess sit until morning—my usual rebel move—but Rip’s clearly a clean-freak and, well, I’m technically squatting in his beachside hideaway. Not exactly the time to be a slob.
I tuck the final plate into the cupboard and freeze mid-step. Wait. Was I just… humming? I blink at the sink like it personally betrayed me. Yep. That was definitely humming. A sound I haven’t made in—wow—a long time. Not since life got a little too real. But somehow, here, in Rip’s borrowed kitchen with the scent of garlic still hanging in the air, I feel… lighter.
I glance out the open window I may have crawled through earlier, and there he is. Rip. Watching me.
I lift my hand in a wave, a little sheepish, and he lifts his in return—stiff, awkward, like waving might physically pain him. Then, like I caught him doing something scandalous, he snaps his gaze away and pretends to be very, very interested in the grill tongs.
Okay… weird.
I let myself watch him a little longer. There’s a tightness to his movements, a guarded stiffness in his stride that makes my chest pinch. He’s hurting. Not just physically—though the limp’s still there—but in that big, silent way men like Rip try to hide. His career’s dangling on a string, and I’m guessing he’s not thrilled about his fallback plan involving dusty textbooks and political debates. He’s not built for boardrooms. He’s built for ice and speed and cheering crowds.
But if he won’t let anyone help him? Fine. I’ll help without making it a thing. No pressure, no pity party. Just sneaky, subtle care. Ninja nurturing, if you will.
I check the freezer. Full ice tray. Perfect.
Then my phone starts jittering across the counter like it’s possessed. I glance at the screen and my stomach drops. Of course. Her. My fingers twitch, but I don’t move. Just let it ring. And ring. And?—
It stops.
Then immediately starts again.
And I still just… stare.
“Are you going to get that?”
I whip around so fast I nearly dislocate something. “Holy crap, Rip! Ever think of knocking?”
