Page 77 of Stick Break
Like hell.
I glance at my phone, still lighting up with Lyra’s name—a neon sign for trouble.
“She was asking if she could come here,” I admit, and just like that, I feel her entire body stiffen. I rush to explain. “I told her I was headed back to the city, so now she’s just asking when.”
Charley nods. “She wants to see you.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice flat. “She must need something.” That’s how it’s always been with Lyra. She comes around when she needs something—attention…a story.
Charley slowly climbs off my lap, and the air cools instantly, like she took all the warmth with her. A shiver rips through me that has nothing to do with temperature.
“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 how well 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.
