by Snow, Nicole
God, how did I end up so sheltered I can’t even guess the cost of a loaf of bread?
No matter where my life goes after this mess is over, there are so many things I need to change.
So many things I need to learn. I can’t just keep bouncing between people who want to take care of me, without knowing how to do anything for myself.
“Liz?” penetrates my thoughts.
“Liz!” Someone calls louder.
Its not until Riker bumps me with his elbow that I realize they mean me, and the barista had written down Liz instead of Liv on the coffee cup. The paranoid part of me says that’s a lucky accident, because I’m not even sure I should be using my real name in public. Who knows who might overhear and rat me out to someone who wants to kill me?
Look at me now. Liv Holly, international spy.
I fetch my frappe, and Riker’s right after me with his Arabica.
We find a little booth right by the tall floor-to-ceiling windows, letting us look out over a sunny day, a palm-lined street, and beyond the road's safety barrier, a sloping hill leading down to a sandy shore and a glittering stretch of reflective blue.
If this were just a normal day out, it'd be gorgeous. The water’s never so bright and sparkly in Seattle, more of a muted slate blue that’s calming but doesn’t quite have the same breathtaking brilliance as these California seas.
I can’t help but watch, letting the shimmer of the waves hypnotize away my worries. A welcome distraction from the tense silence stretching longer and longer while Riker and I sip our drinks and look anywhere but at each other.
I want him to look at me, though.
Want him to look at me so much, to see me, and it takes everything in me to risk a glance at him before offering a shy smile and murmuring, “This is awkward, isn't it?”
He pulls away from watching the other people in the café and blinks at me, then offers me a rarely vouchsafed smile – easy, dry, a wry and charming realness that changes his entire face and brings warmth to those cool eyes.
“Yeah, sweetheart. It is.” His eyes crinkle around the corners as he chuckles, sliding one hand back through his silver-streaked hair. “Glad you said it first.”
He’s got to stop doing things like that. He’s got to stop giving me these little freaking bits of what makes him human when I just know the second I get too close, he’ll pull away again. Tentatively, I offer, “I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.”
“Wrong,” he growls, and he’s not smiling anymore. But he’s not closing off, either, a hint of cynical humor lingering around his lips that diffuses my nervousness. “Stuck, that is. I’m just trying to figure out how to make this easy.”
“Easy? What do you mean?”
Riker says nothing but idly drums his fingers against his thigh several times, his knee shifting restlessly.
For such a still, quiet, immovable man, there’s a disquiet under his skin, a tension that makes him seem slingshot ready to snap whenever he has to sit still. Only in public, though, I realize.
At home – can I really call it home? – he eases off, but in public, it’s like he’s always on the alert for any danger that might come near.
Finally, though, he says, “I'm talking 'bout how we relate, Liv. We’re not friends. We’re not lovers. You’re a client, but you’re also someone occupying a space in my house – but damn if you’re not more than a guest, too. You’ve made yourself part of our daily lives. Here we are, pretending to be engaged. We touch, we hold each other, we fake all those little things for show.” The flat, matter-of-fact way he recites it shouldn’t hurt, but it’s like little needles sinking into me. Only for his gaze to suddenly hit like daggers, slicing into me as he looks at me head on. “And we know nothing about each other.”
I blink. Surprised. Not what I expected.
My voice stays calm, hopeful, but calm when I ask, “Do you...want to get to know me?”
He’s still looking at me in that sharp, piercing way that sees everything. Like how nervous I am.
Like how easy he can make my heart race and my skin prickle and this deep, drawing, wonderful feeling start deep in my stomach before it melts lower, pooling in this tiny, sweet point like happy pain, throbbing and hot. It's almost embarrassing.
How much I want to know him.
How afraid I am to ask.
“Something like that,” he says slowly, warily.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything, Riker.” I wet my lips, then reach across the table and tentatively cover his hand with mine, praying he won’t jerk away when we’re still supposed to be engaged. “We can be friends. Just friends. It's okay. I mean, I think it'd even be easier for Em if we were.”
“Friends?” His entire body stiffens like a gargoyle turning to stone in the sunlight. His hand curls into a clenched fist under mine, but he doesn’t pull away. “Why are you bringing Em into this?”
“Because I adore her. She’s brilliant, funny, sweet, and you’re so lucky to have such an amazing daughter. And I’d like to think she and I are friends already, even if you and I aren’t.”
Even if his fist is a coiled knot under my palm, I still curl my fingers against it, trying to coax, to soothe, just asking with the softest touch for him to loosen up and let me in just the slightest.
“I'm not trying to convince you. But you know how smart she is. You know how perceptive she is. You can’t think she’s missed how tense you are around me, or how unhappy you are to have me in the house. How do you think she feels, when you’re so stiff all the time and obviously disapprove, but she still wants to be my friend?”
His eyes narrow. “She shouldn’t want to be your friend.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re leaving,” he says, and for a moment his voice fades into a soft growl as he looks away, glaring out the window. “Em can’t take more people leaving her.”
If I weren't studying him so closely, it might come off rude.
But there’s so much pain in the tense line of his shoulders, in the harsh knit of his brows, and I can’t help but wonder.
Em can’t take it…or you can’t?
Gently, testing, I stroke my thumb along the side of his fist. “Just because the job will end doesn’t mean I’ll stop being Em’s friend when it’s over.” I cover his fist with my other hand, then cradle it in both. “Or yours.”
He shifts another tense glance back, just barely looking at me. But he’s still not pulling away, and slowly that tight-curled fist is relaxing, the hard ridges of his knuckles easing.
“If we can all be friends,” I add softly, “the next few weeks will be that much easier.”
A grunt. And then he turns his hand underneath mine. Every warmth in the world rushes through me like a flooding wave as he curls his hand around mine.
I bet for anyone watching it looks like we just had a lover’s spat before I talked Mr. Grump down from his sulk. But they aren't in my world.
No one will ever know what a leap that hand capturing mine is. No one will ever know what it does to me, or how deeply it melts me. No one on Earth can measure the speed of my heart.
And it's nothing compared to the insane second he finally – finally! – admits, his voice raw, “Don’t know how to be your friend, sweetheart. But I’ll try.”
A smile lights me up inside. “Trying is good.” I let my fingers tangle with his and remind myself to breathe. “And if you mean it, may I ask you something personal?”
“Only if it’s not mandatory I answer.”
“No.” I shake my head quickly. “I just want to know, but I won’t get angry if it’s too much for you.”
He heaves a deep sigh, less exasperated and more patiently tired, and cocks his head toward me. “Too much? I'm over that. You want to ask me about Em’s ma, don’t you?”
Oh, Jesus. Busted.
I cringe. “Is it that obvious?”
“Not so much that you need to turn that shade of red.” His faint smile makes me redder. “We’ve ju
st been talking about why I don’t want anything confusing Em. Can't be hard to guess her mother’s the one who left us and that’s why I don’t want her to feel that pain again.”
Then I take a deep breath and drop the inevitable. “How did she leave you, Riker?”
“Cancer,” he answers simply.
Nothing simple about it.
That one word is a gut shot, like every letter is made of cruel barbs meant to hook and hurt the speaker and the listener. My heart wilts before he even speaks another word.
“Four years ago. But she was already leaving us before that, if I'm honest, I...” Riker pauses, a fresh scowl on his face.
For a second, I'm worried it's meant for me. But then I see it's clenched, pointed inward, and I hurt so bad for him. “Fuck, Liv. It just didn't work. What else can I say?”
He’d started off answering like it was just cold, empty data. Now, he trails off, and his fingers clench again – only this time they’re wrapped up in mine and he’s holding my hand so tight, so tight, and I wish with all the world I could give him strength through that touch, strength enough to ease the rough and aching edge to his words when he drops the next bomb.
“We were about to divorce, Crystal and me, when she got the diagnosis. We just weren’t right for each other and while we tried not to fight in front of Em, it was still hurting her. And then Crystal...we didn’t know until she was already stage four. It was in her lungs, her lymphatic system, and I couldn’t leave her that way. She was the mother of our girl. Once, when we were younger and different, I loved her more than life itself, even if that love was gone by then.” His throat works, a hard swallow, his voice thickening. “I couldn't fucking do it. I couldn't walk away. I wasn't going to leave her to die alone.”
Oh, Riker. It's a physical burn in my chest.
My eyes are brimming, but I blink hard, trying to shove the stinging feeling away. Trying to be strong for him while he cuts himself open and bleeds.
This isn’t my pain. I’m not going to make this about me when he’s baring his soul.
I only hold his hand tighter, stroking both my thumbs over his weathered skin and coarse hair on the backs of his knuckles, leaning in close to listen.
“It was the right thing to do,” I whisper. “And it’s not your fault. It can't be.”
“Maybe not.” His jaw is hard, a jutting line of self-recrimination. “But I feel like I did everything wrong. I couldn’t save Em from the hurt. And I couldn’t save Crystal from dying. And I couldn’t save myself from realizing that I’d thought I was ready to let her go...and I was wrong. I was powerless.”
“Riker.” I want so much to leave this chair and go to him, wrap him up, comfort him, but we’re in public, and this hushed conversation is all low seething words and secrets told in the open air. “Sometimes there are things in life you can’t save anyone from. But I think it’s part of who you are that you tried. You gave everything.”
“Trying isn't shit. I have to save Em from more pain. Don’t you get it?” He’s still so tense, but there’s something almost desperate in the way he looks at me. As if he thinks I have the power to break him, instead of the other way around.
Holy hell. And now, he’s almost begging me not to. “Well, we're trying now,” I tell him, twirling my hand in his. “Trying to get to know each other. I don't know you that well, not yet, but I know two things: you're a good dad. And a good man.”
“You want to know who I am, Olivia? Really? Truly?”
Those words come like three neat, savage gunshots. They don't stop me from nodding fiercely.
“I'm an asshole trying to keep his head above water with way too goddamn much weighing him down. I've got room for two E-words in my life: Emily and Enguard. Not entanglements, not emotions, not extra baggage. So if we’re going to be friends, I need you to get why I draw lines. Not for me. For her sake.”
I won’t lie: that hurts.
It hurts so bad, crumpling up that fledgling hope inside me, that sweet quiet wanting, before it even had a chance to bloom into something beautiful.
I’m not even sure what he’s trying to guard against when really there’s nothing between us but my own wishful thinking, and yet it feels like he’s saying if he wasn’t so afraid of me, wasn’t so afraid of me leaving, or confusing his daughter...
There could be.
Only there won’t ever be.
Because Riker’s a wall I don’t know how to scale and I can’t bring myself to hurt him more by trying to batter through his defenses. He’s equal parts infuriating and irresistible.
Make that unattainable, too.
So all I can do is smile. Smile, damn it.
Even if it feels like a sickle cutting through my heart, I do, and I squeeze his hands reassuringly. “It’s okay,” I say softly. I’m proud my voice doesn’t break when I feel like I’m going to lose it any second. “I understand. I won’t do anything to hurt either of you. You have my word. My promise. Friends don't let each other down..”
* * *
It’s nothing but quiet after that, but it’s not the same hostile, defensive quiet as before.
I don’t know if everything’s changed or nothing has at all, but when Riker voluntarily asks me about my story for the second time, I’m willing to tell him a little more.
All about an innocent girl named Eden who’s shipped off to Alaska for work as an assistant museum curator, and although she thinks she’s going to Juno or another big city, instead she’s dumped off in a tiny town only accessible by private plane.
One where people are expected to fend for themselves on generator power and with plumbing that doesn’t work half the time, where people subsist on hunting and fishing and gardening without easy access to grocery stores.
City born and raised, she’s helpless. Completely dependent on her host – the very man she’s been sent to coax into selling a priceless antique heirloom her employer wants for his museum collection.
By the time we finish our coffees and move on to browsing the office supply store, I can see Riker trying not to wrinkle his nose when I describe the hero as a handsome, rugged lumberjack of a man with brown hair, silver streaks at the temple, and the wounded snarl of a bear with a thorn in its paw.
Yep, my book boyfriend is a beast-man. Surprise.
It’s not hard to tell he wants to say something but keeps holding back, and it makes me restrain a smile.
My voice stays as bland as possible as I tell him how the hero tries to chase Eden out, but instead a life-threatening blizzard leaves her trapped there, forced to learn how to fend for herself and stand on her own two feet when it’s all hands on deck to make sure everyone in town weathers the blizzard safely.
Of course, my heroine and enigmatic hero fall for each other desperately, passionately, trapped together day in, day out.
Riker outright rolls his eyes with an amused snort. “Typical romance. It's too neat, sweetheart. Shit like that never happens so clean in real life.”
I grin and sail right past my dilemma with the ending as the checkout counter gives me a convenient moment to break off. I have to say, I’m pleased with myself.
I know I said I wouldn’t make any complications, but I’m pretty sure I just turned describing my book into flirty banter, and...and Riker actually seemed to find it funny.
Even in a ridiculous, dry way. He cracked a smile. He cracked.
Flirty banter with a friend isn’t crossing any lines, right?
Things seem easier, at least, on the drive back home. I have a new day planner that I’m going to turn into a plot blocking workbook through colored pens and sticky tabs, and Riker seems more comfortable with me now that he’s told me why he’s so careful and I’ve said I understand. I guess now that he knows where the lines are, I’m not so dangerous anymore.
Was I dangerous before?
Am I awful now for wanting to know if maybe, just maybe, some small part of him saw me as more than just a job and a nuisance?
That
’s still on my mind as we pull up to the house – but we can’t pull into the drive because there’s a car already there.
Riker’s tension comes back immediately, like a third presence in the car, wary and battle-ready.
Thankfully, it's not a total surprise.
I already know this car. No one else on the entire West Coast drives a pink Bugatti Veyron, because no one else can afford one – and that’s saying a lot considering we’re sharing a demographic with Hollywood.
Even before we park the Wrangler on the street and get out, I know who’ll be waiting for us, even if I don't know why.
Milah.
She’s standing on the doorstep, completely exposed and alone.
As if two men didn’t die trying to get to her and a lot more aren’t trying to murder us both out of some weird blood grudge. She's there, tapping her sparkly translucent pink heels impatiently and filing her nails. As Riker and I open the gate, she glances up, then lets out an exasperated sigh and curls her hand on her hip.
“Oh my God, finally!” she calls, twisting her lips in a pout. “I’ve been waiting for ten minutes.”
“Your life must be over,” Riker says flatly, while I scowl.
“What are you even doing here?” I ask. “Where’s your escort?”
“Waiting at the airport for both of us, duh.” She flicks Riker over with an appreciative look. “You too, if you want to come. And the kid.”
I'm too shocked to ask questions.
Riker folds his arms over his chest in his way that makes a huge bulwark out of him, as if he’s settling in and prepared not to move no matter how much anyone pushes at him. “Where exactly would we be going?”
“Vancouver,” Milah chirps. “My other other vacation house. I was going to take Livvie on a little girl-on-girl sisters’ getaway for some stress relief, but we could make it a group thing. Landon said it was okay.”
Riker looks distinctly unimpressed by Milah’s double entendre. I’m just embarrassed and wondering if she’s drunk, high, or in the mood to make trouble because she’s bored.
“I don’t think so, sis,” I say. “Doesn't seem wise. I’m supposed to be in hiding. Not jetting around.”