Ryder's Bride (Brides Bay Book 1)

by V. K. Sykes

  He would be too. It wasn’t her that was making him edgy.

  Well, maybe she was, but not in the way she obviously thought.

  She gently dislodged Stanley and brushed her hands down the legs of her jeans. He’d seen her do that before when she was nervous. “I really should go.”

  He got up. “If you can stay a while longer, I’ll answer your question…better.”

  “You don’t have to humor me, Ry. You’re not paying me for that.”

  “No, I want to tell you. But let’s go out on the patio and get some air. It’s beautiful out there.”

  Hearing him say out, Stanley bounced down off the sofa and padded over to the patio door, tail wagging.

  Claire shoved her restless hands in her pockets. “You’re sure?”

  When Ry reached and gently pulled one of her hands out, she startled a bit. But then she wrapped her slim fingers around his. Her small hand was swallowed up in his grip.

  He led her out to the dark terrace then turned around and shooed Stanley back inside before closing the door. He didn’t trust the dog enough yet to let him roam around the unfenced yard in the dark, and he didn’t want to turn on the floodlights. They would make the yard as bright as a ball field.

  While he was seeing to Stanley, Claire wandered over to the bluffs. Her sweet, feminine curves were outlined in the moonlight, and her blond hair was a shimmering fall of silk that was just begging to be touched.

  Just like that, Ry knew exactly what he wanted to do next.

  * * *

  She wasn’t sure whether the cool breeze off the bay or the tense scene with Ry was the reason she was shivering.

  It was basically her fault for being too damn curious. The last thing she wanted was to lose a client or destroy any sense of friendship between them. He had every right to his privacy, both from her and from everyone else in town.

  And he was obviously bone tired from a long day. So, yeah, it was her fault, not his.

  He came up beside her and stood quietly, his feet firmly planted near the edge of the bluffs as he stared out over the bay. Another two small steps and they would both tumble down the rocky, bush-covered slope. Fortunately, there was enough moonlight that they could ease up close without risking life and limb. And she was glad he hadn’t turned on the powerful yard lights. The darkness made her feel less exposed and embarrassed.

  His big body radiated a seductive heat. She ignored the very inappropriate impulse to snuggle closer to ward off the crisp ocean breeze.

  Yeah, it would just be to stay warm. Keep telling yourself that.

  “I came out here to paint this afternoon,” she confessed into the silence. “It’s been years, and I just wanted to grab one last chance. I’m sorry if that was pushy of me.”

  “I don’t mind at all.” His voice was low and husky. “And it doesn’t have to be the last time. You can paint here whenever you want.”

  She turned to him, surprised. “Seriously?”

  “Sure.”

  She studied his rugged profile, but his expression was obscured. “Thank you,” she said softly. “That would be awesome. But don’t worry—I won’t make a habit of it.”

  He grimaced when he finally looked at her. “Listen, I’m sorry about what I said in there. It’s just that my feelings about hockey are really complicated. About not being able to play anymore, I mean.”

  “I’m sure it’s hard. I’d be a wreck if I couldn’t paint.”

  He gazed up at the full moon for a few long seconds. The pine trees and wildflowers that were part of Promise Island’s beauty scented the night air. Below, gentle waves lapped onto the rocks. Claire’s chest pulled tight with a sharp pang of longing for all those childhood summer nights she’d spent there—a time when life had seemed so uncomplicated.

  Ry moved closer, his shoulder touching hers. “I had plenty of injuries over the years. A couple of concussions, a broken ankle, and tons of fairly minor stuff. But nothing career ending until one night last December. It was the last time I put on a uniform.”

  She braced herself. “What happened?”

  “I was cutting across center ice when a defenseman hit me with a low check—an illegal hit, actually. The next thing I knew I was airborne. I flipped right over and landed on my helmet. The impact knocked me out cold, so at least I didn’t feel any pain. Not until I woke up in the examining room anyway. Then I learned real fast that the hit had torn my knee ligaments to shreds. I knew my season was over, just like that.”

  “How awful.” She had to force down a surge of nausea at the gruesome mental image.

  “The surgeon did a good job, but he and everybody else knew it was a longshot for me come back all the way from an injury that bad. Still, I’d taken thousands of hard checks over the years and always bounced back, so I thought I would still have a chance. Obviously I was done for the year, but not forever.”

  As he stared out at the bay, Claire had the sense he wasn’t truly seeing it.

  “Team management didn’t agree,” he said. “They didn’t fool around either. They paid out the last year of my contract and cut me loose. My agent made calls to a bunch of other teams, but nobody was willing to take a chance on me. Not with my concussion history on top of the knee issue. So I was all done. Over and out.”

  Except he wasn’t done, at least not in one sense. She thought of the sleek red motorcycle in the garage and another shiver rippled through her.

  “Are you cold?” he asked. “Want to go back in?”

  “No, I’m fine. I have to admit I’ve been wondering about that slight limp of yours.”

  “Most people don’t even notice it. The knee feels pretty good now. I won’t be running any marathons, but I’m not headed for a wheelchair when I’m a geezer.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing. What about the concussions though? There’s so much in the news these days about sports concussions. About the terrible long-term effects they can have.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said grimly.

  “There was a star football player who committed suicide not too long ago, wasn’t there? Didn’t they say it was because of the brain injuries he’d suffered while playing?”

  “He was a retired player, actually. And yeah, there’ve been plenty of bad situations in hockey too.” He shook his head, his face shadowed. “I went to some really tough funerals of friends who couldn’t handle the effects of the damage.”

  An image of Julie’s funeral flashed through her mind and pain surged up, ugly and dark. “Why would you even want to keep playing, knowing there were such big risks?” she asked, her voice tight.

  He moved away, just enough to make a difference.

  “Oh man, there I go again,” she said with a sigh. “Just call me Ms. Pain In The Ass.”

  That won her slight smile, but only for a second.

  “I know it’s hard to understand. Nobody can understand unless they’ve been there. That’s why some guys…” He shrugged, not finishing the thought. “Look, for guys like me, playing hockey was life, and I mean that. We’d take just about any risk to be able to stay on the ice. And when something or somebody makes you stop...”

  “It feels like you’ve been cut adrift?”

  “Worse that that.” His voice went gruff and he looked away, as if embarrassed. “Like whatever is left just isn’t important.”

  On one level, she got it. She’d been lost for a long time after the Brooklyn tragedy. Still, she’d never sunk so far into depression that nothing seemed to matter anymore. Her family and friends had seen to that, dragging her kicking and screaming back to the land of the living.

  Didn’t Ry have anyone to pull him back?

  “You must have been thinking about life after hockey even before the injuries,” she ventured.

  He snorted. “I worked hard not to think about it.”

  She turned to look at him. “With how much success?”

  He shrugged. “I grew up with a hockey stick in my hands. My father had my entire career
planned out for me by the time I was about six or seven—as soon as he saw that I could skate rings around every other kid my age. From then on, that was my life—hockey and nothing else. Once I made the jump to pro, I figured I might be able to keep playing into my forties, like I was Gordie Howe or something. I was so damn arrogant.”

  She touched him on the forearm, wishing like crazy that she could hug him instead. “Who isn’t at that age? When I first went to art school, I was certain I was going to be the next Banksy.”

  “Who’s Banksy?”

  “Never mind,” she said, smiling. “Look, I understand where you’re coming from, at least partly. But maybe you just haven’t found the thing yet—what you love doing, now that you can’t play hockey anymore.”

  He flashed her an amused glance. “I have found it. It’s racing motorcycles.”

  “But that’s dangerous too, and risking your health like that—is it really worth it?”

  “Yeah, it is. I took my injuries seriously, especially the concussions, and I always did what the doctors and the team told me. I weighed the risks, and I still do. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

  While it sounded like denial to her, it sure as heck wasn’t her place to tell him that. “I’m sure you do.”

  “Thanks for that ringing vote of support,” he said wryly.

  She winced. “Sorry.”

  His mouth curved up in a reluctant smile. “I get it, Claire, okay? But what do you do when your head tells you one thing and your heart and gut say the opposite?”

  She got his point. In the aftermath of her accident, she’d been afraid to even leave her mom’s house, despite her rational mind telling her she was safe.

  She turned to gaze at her old house, the lights inside coming softly through the patio windows. “Sometimes logic doesn’t mean a damn thing, does it?”

  “Not when you want something bad enough.” His voice had gone deep again, but with a husky note that made her shiver. “Are you cold?”

  “A…a bit,” she stuttered. “Maybe we should go back inside.”

  “In a second.”

  When his arm went around her waist, all resistance seemed to flow from her limbs. Then he slowly pulled her close to his body.

  “Warmer now?” he murmured.

  Warmer? She just might spontaneously combust. “Uh, Ry?”

  One big hand came up to cradle her chin, tilting it up so their eyes could meet. Even in the darkness, his gaze burned right through her.

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s happening right now?”

  He laughed softly. “Well, I thought I’d kiss you, if that’s okay.”

  “Uh,” she said again, like an idiot.

  He lowered his head and kissed her, softly at first, then with coaxing insistence. She told herself to step back and tell him to knock it off. Instead, she parted her lips. When he surged inside, her legs wobbled and she had to clutch at his back for support.

  This is crazy. But crazy had never felt so good.

  She leaned into him, nestling against the hard wall of his chest. The contact sparked a delicious ache in her already tight nipples. Instinctively, she squirmed, trying to get closer. One simple kiss and she wanted more—so much more.

  But there was nothing simple about the kiss or the moment. It was all about need and a sweep of emotions that had caught her completely off guard. She let him devour her mouth, opening herself to their shared hunger.

  The kiss took on a sensual urgency when he retreated and then sucked her lower lip into his mouth. He gently bit down and sensation streaked through her body, settling low between her thighs. She realized that she’d really missed how it felt when her body got soft and damp for a man, eager for what came next.

  And, oh boy, did she ever want it—want him.

  When she whimpered, Ry soothed her with soft caresses, tracing the shape of her lips with his tongue before sweeping back inside. She’d experienced more than a few first kisses in her life, but none like this. Not even remotely like it.

  She wanted to give him everything.

  But then his fingers spread wide and he nudged her even closer, tilting her pelvis to rock against the thick, hard ridge in his pants.

  And it was very, very hard.

  Keep this up, and he’ll be doing you out here on the ground in about two minutes flat.

  Claire jerked as if someone had just jabbed her with a cattle prod. Dropping her hands from his back, she wriggled to put some space between them. Ry let her withdraw, his fingers brushing down the tops of her thighs before fully letting go.

  Claire took a hasty step backward to put more even distance between them. She sucked in a trembling breath, her hands shaking as she pushed her hair back from her face.

  “Sorry, but I don’t think this is a very good idea,” she managed to choke out.

  She’d been so close to letting go, letting him do whatever he wanted. Her client. Her boss.

  God, she’d screwed this up in more ways than she could count.

  Ry shoved his hands into his pockets as he turned back to face her. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Claire. I shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t right.”

  She frowned, sensing that he meant something different. “Do you mean because I work for you?”

  He gave his head an impatient shake. “You really don’t want to get involved with someone like me.” His voice sounded hard, even bitter.

  “Oh, because you’re a rich guy? A hockey player? Because, dude, those aren’t exactly turn-offs, you know,” she said, trying to break the tension that swirled between them. She had to get them back on a better footing. “Or would you be referring to your mysterious hermit tendencies?”

  She caught a quick glimpse of a smile before he turned dead serious again. “I just meant that I don’t do involved. I’m always upfront about that so women know what they’re getting into if they want to hook up with me.”

  Okay, now that was pretty annoying. Did he really think she’d have expected some big-ass commitment just because he’d kissed her, or even if she’d slept with him?

  “Yeah, I can see you would need to do that,” she said. “Because I’d be so bowled over by your torrid lovemaking skills—or your big bank account—that I’d want to rope you into a relationship immediately.”

  He laughed. “Come on, smartass, let’s go back inside.”

  She fell into step beside him. “Okay, let me get this straight. If I were to tell you that I do know what I’m getting into, and that I’m okay with it, you’d be happy to plunge ahead, so to speak?”

  He stopped on the patio. “We both know that would be a bad idea.”

  “I totally agree, but just for the sake of argument, tell me why you think so.”

  “Because you’re not…” He shook his head again. “Why don’t we just let it go?”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re trying to say that I’m not your type. You’d be right about that.” She tried to sound like it didn’t matter.

  Her time in New York had taught her that she’d always be a small town girl at heart. Still, she was human and rejection always sucked, even when it made sense.

  He clamped a gentle hand on her shoulder, holding her back. “Hang on, okay? What I was trying to say is that you don’t need someone like me in your life, a guy who comes and goes. I’m hoping Brides Bay will be somewhere I can stay awhile, but the jury’s totally out on that. It’s an experiment. To see if I like it enough here.”

  An experiment?

  She got that he wasn’t a small town kind of guy, but this was just an experiment to him? “What about all your plans? Bulldozing this house and putting up a fancy new one? Is the jury still out on that too?

  “People tell me I have to build something a lot bigger and better if I want to get the most out of my investment when I sell it.”

  “Sell it to another rich CFA, you mean.”

  He gave her a puzzled look. “Is that the way you think of me? Just another rich CFA?”

&nbs
p; Crap. She needed to remember what mattered here—that he was her boss. She’d already screwed up enough for one night. It was time to make a less-than-graceful exit and hope the damage wasn’t going to be permanent.

  “Of course not.” She eased out of his grasp. “I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to hit the road. Early day tomorrow.”

  She slid open the patio door and brushed by Stanley, whose sad expression seemed to ask why she didn’t stop to fuss over him. She grabbed her bag and hurried to the front door.

  “Before you go, there’s one more thing,” Ry said from behind.

  She mentally sighed but pinned what she hoped was a friendly, calm smile on her face as she turned around. Ry was only a few feet away, leaning against the doorframe, all brawny male hotness. She had to clamp down on the surge of regret that flooded through her. Getting involved with him would amount to buying a first class ticket on the express to crazy town.

  Great ride though, I bet.

  “Do you need something?” Her voice came out chippier than she intended.

  Stanley, who’d followed her, pushed his cold nose against her hand, probably sensing her anxiety.

  Ry held up his hands. “Relax. I just wanted to ask if you still want me to show up at that festival committee meeting tomorrow. Because right now it feels like you might not want to see me again for a while.”

  She hadn’t even thought about the meeting. Seeing him there could be awkward, but she did need his help. And she certainly didn’t want him to think he wasn’t welcome to take part in a community project.

  “Absolutely I want you to come,” she said with a smile. “We start at two o’clock sharp.”

  He studied her for a few massively uncomfortable seconds before nodding.

  After giving Stanley another pat on the head, she escaped to her car and made a point of not looking back.

  Chapter 8

  A late Sunday brunch at Marché Spy Hill had become a ritual for Claire and Meg in the couple of years since Sylvie St. Germain opened her small restaurant and gift emporium. As usual, the York Street favorite was packed, and people were lined up outside waiting to get into the best eatery in town. The weekend outing with her bestie was invariably the highlight of Claire’s week. Once in a while her mom would join them if she wasn’t working, and that made it even better.