Page 48 of Don't Bite the Boy Next Door
He chuckles and shakes his head, and we walk on.
I scour the internet searching for gifts that might be delivered to our small rural town just a few days shy of Christmas.
I’ve had already made a gift for Ryan. It’s hidden in his woodshed down the back. I’ve completely renovated his grandfather’s old farm tractor for him; once rusty and hidden by weeds in the back yard, it now stood ready to go, fire engine red and perfect, with a brand new snowplough attached to the front. There will be no more hand-shovelling of the long driveway for him in future winters, and hopefully, being neighbourly, he might do mine too.
Not wanting to seem as though I had nothing for him, I’d hung an envelope on the tree with his name on it, giving instructions on where he could find his gift.
‘Maybe we will be more than neighbours by next Christmas. Maybe, if his mother likes me, that might help. Oh God, his mother, what to buy for her? What to buy at such short notice?’
I frown as I concentrate once more on scouring the online shops, and I continue to frown as an email pings into my inbox.
Scanning the note quickly, I smile, for once receiving good news. I sign off immediately and rise to run down and tell Ryan that my sisters are triumphant and believe it is now safe for me to go home.
But even as I leave my room, my step falters. I know he will be relieved to have his home back, especially since his mother is here. Although she had insisted on taking the sofa lounge in the study and is quiet as a mouse, their relationship is fraught with an undeniable tension. I was hoping to help thaw the ice between them in some way if I could. But truthfully, regardless, I just want to stay.
That kiss. I can’t stop thinking about it, wishing he would do it again, hoping…
‘It’s only three days until Christmas. Why not wait until after to tell him? No, that is wrong. Tell him now.’
I put on my firm face, determined to do the right thing, and hunt him down, finding him in the kitchen, installing new fittings on the old cabinetry.
I have to pause in the doorway and swallow heavily as I see him laying on the floor on his back, his head inside a cabinet, long, muscular legs poking out, jeans hugging him tightly in all the right places.
“Ryan?”
“Yeah.” His voice is muffled, and he continues working, the muscles in his arm bulging as he turns a screwdriver.
Rather than forcing him to stop work, and therefore denying myself the pleasure of watching him, which frankly is like a drug addict watching a line being cut at this point, I sit down beside him. Leaning my back against the nearest cupboard, I try to pull my eyes from his thighs.
“Ryan, I got an email from Pru, she says I can go home.”
‘Please, oh, please ask me to stay.’
“When?” his arm stills, but he remains in the cupboard.
“Any day now, she says they managed to destroy the vampires who were controlling Solomon’s empire. They are mopping up now, but the coast is clear, I have nothing to fear, neither do you.”
“Just the idea of spending Christmas alone with my mother,” he mutters, pulling his head out of the cupboard and sitting up.
I shake my head and frown. If I’m leaving, and he hasn’t insisted I do otherwise, then I may as well tell him what I think of his mother.
“Your mother is wonderful,” I say quietly, “and although you told me once that she is afraid of you,” I hold up my hand to stall his interruption, “I don’t see fear in her eyes when she looks at you. I see love.”
“You don’t know anything – anything about her, anything about me,” he mutters, rising to his feet and walking to the sink.
“Then tell me,” I demand from where I sit, “I’ve bared my soul to you, aired my dirty linen, my terrible past. Tell me why yours is so much worse? Tell me what you could have done that is anything near as bad as my awful story. Tell me why she would be afraid of you, why you can’t be my friend when I feel like you want to be. Tell me, Ryan.”
He stands silently, his back to me, and I sigh heavily. Obviously, he isn’t going to tell me, and he isn’t going to ask me to stay. I need to pack.
I’m about to rise when he clears his throat.
“I couldn’t protect her,” he whispers, his shoulders sagging, as he leans over the sink, staring out the small window.
“I didn’t help her. When he beat her, I hid. The moment I was old enough to join the forces, as he demanded I should, I did. I didn’t look back, didn’t try to save her from him. I was so glad to be out of his path, out of his shadow, out of reach of his fists. When her letters came, I resented them. I told myself she was weak for allowing herself to be beaten, that she deserved it, that I hated her. I knew I was just like him.”
He pauses to turn on the tap and pour himself a big glass of water, drinking the entire glass before turning and looking down at me, his eyes full of sorrow.
I think he has said all he will, but he surprises me, it’s almost as though a dam has burst, and now it must all come out.
