If I Stay

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If I Stay Page 9

by Tamara Morgan


  “You could.” Mr. Montgomery walked him to the door, a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was a possessive hand, a paternal hand. “But I think you already know the answer.”

  Except he didn’t.

  To own him? To redeem him? To toy with a man who had nowhere else to go?

  It was probably option D. All of the above.

  Chapter Seven

  Not getting involved in other people’s lives was supposed to be simple.

  The day Ryan wrecked the car that ended his career, he’d walked away from the twisted metal wreckage without so much as a single scratch. No blood, no bruises, no sign of anything broken unless you counted the damage to his ego and the soul-crushing realization that he’d singlehandedly destroyed his own dreams.

  Lay low for a few months, his agent had advised when he’d begged—pleaded, prostrated himself—for a way back in. Sober up. Find stable work that keeps you behind the wheel. It might take some time, but we can fix this.

  With those words tucked in his pocket to strengthen him, he’d been willing to take up Mr. Montgomery’s offer to move to Connecticut and play chauffeur for a while. He’d stay away from the vices that had ruined him. He’d adopt the AA mantra at a literal level, taking life one day at a time. And even though he didn’t actively avoid people, he didn’t seek them out either. Having spent most of his life driving solo, he figured a few months of retreat wouldn’t kill him.

  But a few months had turned into a year, and one year had stretched endlessly into another. If he wanted to start moving again, something needed to happen—and soon.

  Driven by motivations he refused to examine head-on, Ryan found his way down the access stairwell to the nursery, which was housed in a wing of rooms offset from the main structure. Since he’d grown up in a tiny apartment with a father who rarely concerned himself with his only son, it seemed beyond indulgent to keep the kids so far removed from everyone else they might as well have been away at boarding school.

  But there was a lot about this place that oozed medieval pretention. This was hardly the worst offense.

  Although Amy had exaggerated when she’d said you could hear them screaming from afar, it was easy to tell where the kids were playing. They made quite a bit of noise—most of it laughter.

  He allowed himself to stand, listening for a few moments, basking in the simplicity of it, before he knocked.

  “Come on in,” Amy’s voice called. “We’re just fleeing from bears in here. Scientific name Ursus something. Ursavus? Who cares? They growl. Grr.”

  Squeals of delight greeted Ryan as he pulled the door open. Visions of delight were there too—Amy rolling on the floor with a small girl in her arms, a little boy sinking his teeth into her leg, all of them set against a backdrop that looked like an indoor playground for the overprivileged, complete with a hand-painted mural of a fairytale castle on the wall.

  “I’m sorry,” he said tersely, feeling more out of place than he cared to admit. It wasn’t just the kid-friendly atmosphere that did it—after the meeting he’d just had with Mr. Montgomery, it was difficult to look her in the eye without feeling like a complete shit. “I came at a bad time.”

  “Oh, no worries. The more the merrier.”

  Amy waved an arm, heralding Ryan into the nursery with a smile. His voice was gruff, his stance even more so—but all she could think was how happy she was to see him. Visitors to the nursery were rare enough as it was. Visitors who looked at her like that, as if he wanted to simultaneously hide his head under the playroom throw rug and throw her onto the rug for some play time of a different sort, were definitely rarer.

  “I came to see how your face is doing.” Neither the voice nor the stance softened as he remained in the doorway, not coming or going. Just staring.

  “I’ve decided to go on living despite the pain.”

  “I’m so sorry about yesterday,” he said, not cracking a smile. “I should have never...”

  She shooed the twins toward their play kitchen, hoping their hunger would have them gnawing on the wooden food long enough to allow her a grown-up conversation.

  “You should have never what? Accidentally run a car off the road? Don’t worry too much about it. I only look slightly horrific.” She moved closer and stuck her lower lip out in a pout to prove her point. The cut looked a lot worse than it was. She’d always been a bleeder.

  Ryan reached up and ran his thumb lightly over her lip, his touch grazing the surface of her skin. There was nothing to the gesture, really—a concerned chauffeur looking after his damaged passenger, but she felt a shiver work through her all the same. His hands held the right amount of roughness to cause a tingle; the taste of him was a little bit motor oil, a little bit soap. A masculine taste. Like he’d rubbed up against cars and ran his hands along long, tapering fuel lines.

  Against her better judgment, she allowed her mouth to fall open, encouraging his thumb to move in farther, where it plunged deep before he pulled himself sharply away.

  “See?” she said, her breath caught in her throat. “No lasting harm done. These lips will someday kiss again.”

  Ryan’s eyes flared with unmistakable interest, his gaze fixated on her mouth. It would have been the perfect moment for him to see for himself how injured she was, to pull her close and give her split lip a workout it wouldn’t soon forget.

  “Amy, I—” His voice wavered.

  She leaned in close, mouth parted and eyes drifting slowly closed, sure the moment of reckoning was about to arrive...when his hand on her shoulder propelled her gently back.

  “I was wondering what time you get a break today.”

  Oh. Right. Children.

  Despite the mortification of not kissing a man when one’s puckered lips were mere inches from his, she shook herself off and was able to answer with a semblance of dignity. “Don’t be silly—I don’t get breaks. I barely get time to pee.”

  When all he did was continue studying her in his inscrutable way, she added, “I’ll be footloose and fancy free about seven when Sheryl shows up to take over, but you’ll probably be long gone by then.”

  “I can stick around.”

  She cast a quick glance at her watch. “That’s hours away—it’s barely two now. I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “You aren’t asking me to. I’m volunteering.”

  “If it’s about the accident, please don’t worry.” He was making a big deal out of nothing, if you asked her. Everyone made mistakes. She knew that better than anyone. “I’m fine. You wouldn’t believe how easily I bleed. I’m a vampire’s dream come true.”

  “It is about the accident, but not in the way you think.”

  “Oh, God. Did you get fired?”

  He grimaced. “I almost wish I had.”

  Guilt took up its usual residence in the pit of her stomach. Here Ryan was, obviously having a crappy day in the aftermath of ruining one of Mr. Montgomery’s cars, and she was practically attacking him with her bleeding, oozy face. No wonder he kept his distance.

  “You could join the rest of the staff at lunchtime tomorrow instead,” she suggested. That would be nice. The group setting took some of the pressure off, and even taciturn, broody chauffeurs had to eat, right? “I don’t always have a chance to head down there at lunch, but Serena is having a photographer in to take some of those mommy-child-tastefully-naked-together pictures at noon, and I declined her offer to watch.”

  A smile lifted a corner of his mouth. “I have no idea what that sentence means.”

  “The less you know, the better.” She was unable to suppress a smile of her own. “Apparently, she’s had these Anne Geddes–style pictures taken every six months since the twins were born. I’m praying she gets over it by the time puberty hits. There are some memories a child never recovers from—and the ones with photographic eviden
ce are ten times worse.”

  Ryan relaxed and ran a hand over his hair, filling Amy with an urge to follow his path through that soft, short stubble. It was such an intriguing mix of textures, like a five o’clock shadow made of puppies. “I guess one lunch won’t kill me.”

  “One might even say the nourishment will help you go on living.”

  He chuckled softly, but she could tell that he was distracted. He cast a hurried look over his shoulder, as if longing for the door to approach him rather than the other way around.

  “I’ll see you at noon tomorrow, Chauffeur Lucas. In the kitchen. With the steak knife.” Amy pushed him toward the door, helping him find the easy way out. As if her desperation wasn’t enough to drive him away, he also had all these kids around to make him uncomfortable. There was something about a nursery that horrified men, as if they thought fertility might be contagious.

  He dug his heels into the floor and stopped them both midstride, and she had to place both hands against his chest to keep from slamming right into him. Unf. She didn’t move right away—Ryan was a very solid man with a very solid chest. It was as though all his strength was kept bound and contained there, a beast waiting to be unleashed.

  She savored the feel of him under her fingertips for a moment—probably too long of a one, probably once again overstepping his boundaries—unable to help herself. There was a heck of a lot more to Ryan than a few stunt car wounds and badly damaged pride. There was a man in there. A hot, hidden, fascinating man. A man she was becoming more and more determined to uncover.

  “You should probably put something on that lip,” he said gruffly.

  Once more, he lifted his hand to her face.

  Once more, she sort of opened her mouth and drooled into it.

  And then he was moving away and out the door before she realized she was trying, yet again, to kiss him.

  * * *

  Ryan felt ridiculous as he ran his hand along the stone-lined walkway connecting the garage to the rest of the house, the texture scraping his fingertips until they tingled. The passage itself was one he knew well, as he often had reason to move from one building to the other, but he’d never walked it before with the intention of paying a social visit.

  It wasn’t that he had anything against Alex and Holly and the rest. And he was looking forward to spending his lunch hour with more than just a package of Pop-Tarts and the darts he’d gotten in the habit of throwing at a wooden beam while he ate. Unfortunately, this was one of those situations in which time had carved an awkward pit and shoved him right into it. He’d held out for so long, refused all overtures of friendship so many times, that to turn around and suddenly start playing nice looked—and felt—weird.

  But breaking bread with coworkers didn’t mean he’d given up on his plan to leave Ransom Creek. Accepting Holly’s food wasn’t the modern world equivalent of eating the pomegranate seeds and tying the bonds to Hades forever.

  For Amy. He was doing this for Amy.

  After the way she’d looked at him in the nursery, as if he was all man instead of some kind of monster who planned on using her relationship with Jake to further his own ends, he could at least have lunch when she asked. He’d have all the lunches in the world if he thought it might help him out of this mess.

  The sounds of laughter met him long before he reached the swinging kitchen doors. Built like a restaurant and probably equipped better than one, the Montgomery Manor kitchens were similar to everything else in the house—over-the-top and unnecessarily extravagant. He’d only been there a few times, during his initial tour of the place and at last year’s Christmas party—which hadn’t been optional—but his impression had always been one of cavernous sinks and spotless, gleaming stainless steel.

  “So I told him flat-out. Either you let me into the green room to see for myself, or I’m sneaking the entire goddamn paparazzi out back and waiting for you there.”

  The laughter increased in volume and pitch.

  “Hey, Ryan.” Holly looked up in the middle of setting a platter of food in the center of a long wooden table and nodded a greeting as he approached. “Good timing. We were just about to start.”

  A few other friendly greetings assailed his ears—Alex and Philip with a few of his gardening crew members. The tall, nervous-looking personal assistant, Katie, and her dad, Sarge, who oversaw the running of the household. Georgia, the energetic handywoman who came to the Manor a few times a week to fix the things no one else wanted to. He grunted a general greeting to the collective group, but his attention remained fixed on the man sitting physically on the table. Not content with having everyone rapt and adoring, Jake had actually pushed some of the plates away so he could hitch himself up on one corner, waving a fork over them as if he owned the place.

  Which, technically, he did. Or would someday, once Mr. Montgomery died and his children took over in his stead.

  “Ryan, you came!” Amy sprang to her feet and pulled out the chair closest to her. She looked fantastic and at ease, a loose braid slipping over one shoulder, an oversized yellow top layered over shorts, her entire demeanor in keeping with her long-standing competition against the sun. “I’m sorry. It’s kind of a full house today.”

  “That’s because you’re here, sweetie.” Holly gestured at the platter, which held stacked sandwiches and what looked like some kind of grainy salad, and winked at Ryan. “No one ever makes a special trip when it’s just me and my quinoa.”

  Ryan felt his ears flush as he sat down and let loose a string of internal curses. He wasn’t sure if the surge of violence was directed more at himself for being so transparent, or at Jake, who appeared to be here for the same reasons as him.

  Clearly, proximity to Amy came at a price.

  He took in the sight of her, smiling and puffy-lipped as she swiped a cherry tomato shaped like a flower and tossed in it her mouth, and realized how easy it would be to pay it. How quickly he might get into debt for the simple privilege of being near her.

  “It’s a help-yourself sort of meal.” Holly passed him a plate. “I’ve got to get back upstairs with the pumpkin I emptied out.”

  “Oh, geez.” Amy dropped her head to her hands. “She’s doing the pumpkin one?”

  “Pumpkins and my best stockpot. I don’t know whether she’s recording those two for posterity or planning on serving them for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “She’s putting the twins inside pumpkins?” Ryan took a sandwich but passed fearfully over the quinoa. “People actually do that?”

  “This isn’t even the worst one.” Holly shook her head. “Last time I had to do them in cabbage leaves.”

  Georgia poked her head up, her brown hair, curly and wild, moving as if a separate entity. “The time before that, it was flowerpots. I had to find the right sizes to pose all three of them without exposing any naughty bits. It was a lot harder than you’d think.”

  They all laughed, and it was only then they realized Jake was in their midst, still elevated at his perch on the table, listening with a smile.

  “Oh, sorry.” Amy was the first to recover. “We’re being super rude.”

  “Just blowing off some steam,” Philip said.

  “The cabbage ones were pretty cute,” Holly offered.

  Jake raised his hands in a gesture that was half apology, half politician. “Don’t backtrack on my account. You guys should just be grateful you haven’t seen the portraits she had taken of herself right before their wedding. Then you’d really have something to talk about.”

  Ten pairs of horrified eyes turned Jake’s way, but Amy had to laugh. She wasn’t sure if there actually were some kind of boudoir pictures hidden under Mr. Montgomery’s mattress, or if Jake was trying to make them feel better about gossiping behind the family’s back, but it worked. She reached under the table and squeezed his knee.

  It
was a show of solidarity. A little friendly pressure. Nothing more.

  But when she turned to look at Ryan, she snatched her hand guiltily back. She’d never been the sort of woman who could successfully juggle two men at the same time, as the amount of lying involved far exceeded her skill set. Granted, Ryan wasn’t exactly tripping over himself to be the first in line at her kissing booth, but there was no denying she’d grope his leg under the table in a hot second. And Jake? He was her friend, her childhood companion, the man who would probably buy out her kissing booth just because he could.

  Was it better to be pursued by an old friend you didn’t have any real interest in beyond flirtation, or to lust after an unattainable chauffeur? Did better even exist in that situation?

  Jake winked as he rose from the table, impervious, as he always was, to everything but what he cared to acknowledge. “Don’t worry, everyone. Your secrets are safe with me. I’ve outgrown my urge to run to Stepmama with tales.”

  “Aren’t you going to stay and eat with us?” Georgia asked between bites. She had two enormous sandwiches heaped on her plate, and Amy was pretty sure a third had already been consumed. Georgia did a lot of manual labor in her handywoman trade, but Amy had never seen someone with the ability to consume so much at one time without swelling out in a food baby. It was unfair. Her own food baby made an appearance so often she’d nicknamed him Soren.

  “No thanks,” Jake said politely. “I only came down to see how things were going. Ryan, if I could have a word before I go?”

  She looked up sharply at the sound of Ryan’s name falling from Jake’s lips, the power of command in the request so clear it might have come from Mr. Montgomery himself. Ryan must have felt it too, because he got up wordlessly and followed Jake out to the hallway, his body tense enough to send a tremor through the room.

  It was impossible to eavesdrop without drawing the attention of everyone else at lunch, or Amy would have tried. She wasn’t ashamed to admit it. She’d often thought how awesome it would be if the house had those air vents that joined rooms for maximum gossip acquisitions. As a kid, she’d also hoped for secret passages.

 

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