Page 30 of The Space Between
I jerk my chin, though I don’t answer. I don’t have to. He knows me well enough to know that she is.
By noon,the shop is swarming with locals and tourists alike.
Kids, vacationers, families, and regular floaters. It’s the day before the biggest day of the year for us.
I’m halfway through checking the last multi-person raft when I feel it. That shift in the air again. Thatstorm-brewingsilence.
I straighten, eyes scanning the dock.
But I don’t see her. I do see an unfamiliar truck parked at the edge of the gravel.
Out-of-state plates. Dark windows. Engine running. It could just be someone down for the weekend, but my gut clenches.
Then, I see her, halfway down the path between our cabins and here.
Blakelyn.
She’s frozen in place, her eyes wide and locked on the truck.
And I know before she even says a word…
I know.
He’s found her.
That mother fucker is here.
CHAPTER 6
Blakelyn
It’s him.
Even before the door opens, even before I see the outline of his body behind the tinted windshield, I know. Every nerve within me freezes.
My hands go cold. My knees lock. My breath leaves me in one sharp exhale that doesn't come back.
Tyler.
The name I haven’t said out loud in two months. The one I thought I could bury in river water and sunlight and the quiet heat of a man who touched me like I was worth holding onto.
He’s here.
He found me.
The truck idles for a long moment. No one moves. Not me. Not the floaters stacking coolers. Not the group of teenagers waiting for life vests. The entire dock seems to pause—like the moment just before lightning strikes. Then, the door swings open.
He steps out like he owns the gravel, the air… the very morning.
He’s tall and wide. His sunglasses are pushed up into his sandy blond hair. Designer boots, that don’t belong anywhere near a river, are on his feet. That same cocky tilt to his mouth, that charms people who don’t know better, is on his face. He’s handsome, but poison.
He doesn’t look around. He looks atme.
“Baby,” he calls, like no time has passed.
My stomach turns and I feel the scream in my throat before I even process the urge to run. But I don’t move. I’m frozen in the gravel in front of the tubing shack, barefoot, wearing Gruene’s oversized flannel and cutoff shorts thathewould say “show too much leg.” My hair’s still damp from the shower I took after we—after we?—
Oh, God.
