I do, desperately. I’ve been trying to think of the perfect text to send her that wasn’t lame, but that reminded her of the time we had together.
“Oh I’m good at texting. Let me take the lead on this.” Chris steals my phone from my hands.
Before Chris can look at the phone, Justine snags it from his grasp. “You are a shit texter. All you do is use GIFs.”
“Funny ones.”
“You only send storm troopers pelvic-thrusting in the air.”
True. If you scrolled through my phone and clicked on my message thread with Chris, the percentage of texts you would see with a storm trooper humping the air is too high to guess.
“That’s because a humping storm trooper is pretty much a universal response.” He rolls his eyes, as if we’re the weird ones. “Believe me, you’re going to want me to handle this text message.”
While Justine is busy giving her husband a hard time, I steal back my phone, not wanting either of them to participate in texting Rylee.
“Hey, I can help. I’m poetic,” Justine complains.
My brows crease together. “I’m not writing her a poem. Christ, that would be weird.”
“Why not? I like rhyming. I’m good at it. For instance”—she clears her throat—“pussies are pink, dicks are stiff, spread your legs so I can get one last whiff. See, poetic and enticing.”
Chris and I silently stare at Justine, utterly confused as to where the hell that little poem came from. And slightly grossed out . . .
She motions at the two of us. “See? Stunned you both, so imagine Rylee’s response. She’ll be flying to LA before you know it with one thing on her mind: your tongue.”
“For the love of God.” Chris looks around. “No more Rylee Ryan books for you. They’re turning you into a pervert.”
“Please.” Justine laughs. “I was a pervert long before I started reading her books; she’s only reminded me of the potential I have inside me.”
“Lucky me.”
Ignoring the bickering married couple, I check my phone again, kind of wishing there was a text from Rylee, waiting for me. Knowing that’s probably not going to happen after how we left things, I’m going to have to make the first move.
Lips twisted to the side, I try to think the perfect—
I got it!
I press on the little camera emblem and find the picture of us in front of the helicopter. I add it to our text message thread and type out a comment with it before I send.
Beck: Can’t stop thinking about that smile of yours. The smile I got to see every day for the past few days, the one that brightened my vacation, the one that seems to be fogging up my brain now.
Happy, I press send and wait.
And wait.
And fucking wait.
Part Three
Red Pandas and Assless Chaps
Chapter Fifteen
RYLEE
Rylee, this is absolutely brilliant. I am head over heels swooning over here,” my agent, Aimee, says into the phone.
“Yeah? Do you think it’s good enough? Are they going to love it?”
“I have no doubt in my mind. You said you have about thirty thousand words left to write?”
“Yes.”
Aimee makes a committal noise and says, “I wouldn’t go past thirty. Let’s keep the manuscript in the eighty thousand range, okay? Gives us room to make adjustments without dragging the story on for too long.”
Ever since I returned from Key West, I’ve been in the writing cave, pounding on my computer, letting the words flow through me and onto the screen. I hate to admit it, but Zoey’s plan of crashing a wedding was brilliant. I was inspired. I fell in love with Tiffany and Del’s relationship, and the spark of a love story resurrected something inside me.
I’ve been writing for the past five days, and it’s invigorating. I haven’t written this fast since my very first book where I was so damn excited to type out all the personalities in my head that I wrote ninety thousand words in a week.
Key West was good to me.
Very good.
Okay . . . I know what you’re thinking, there was more to Key West than Tiffany and Del’s wedding. That was a small glimpse of your time on the southernmost island.
And listen, I hear ya. I’ll give credit where credit’s due . . . I had a vacation fling. I traipsed the streets of Key West with a young buck of a man, all muscly and gorgeous and, yeah, you know what . . . he did do me up against a window, and I’m not mad about it.
But I don’t want to talk about him.
Not because I’m upset with him, or because he did something wrong, but because the minute I start to even think about my time with him, my gut starts to churn with regret, regret of cutting him out of my life.
And with every text message I receive from him, my heart sputters in my chest to see what he has to say. It’s torture.
After the picture he sent of us in front of the helicopter—the one I saved to my phone and look at daily—I had to tune him out. I was feeling too much, yearning too much, and come on, we live three thousand miles apart. What’s the point?
And I meant what I said. We both have baggage, and I’m not sure how that plays into a fling. It doesn’t really. The only thing that plays into a fling is sex, and hell, the sex was good. I regret not participating in the sex earlier because more than one night with him would have been unbelievable.
“Are you still there?”
“Huh?” I shake my head. “Oh yeah, sorry . . . just thinking about how to finish this book.”
“Ooo, want to share?” Aimee’s voice brightens.
“Uh . . .” Think of a plot, think of a plot, think of a plot. “I want to keep it a secret for now. Surprise you.”
Aimee chuckles. I feel like she knows I was daydreaming. Surely she must be used to daydreaming authors by now. “As long as these characters get their happily ever after that’s all I care about.”
Happily ever after. That’s what my world revolves around and yet, I struggle to find one myself. How freaking ironic.
“Naturally. I’ll talk to you later, Aimee.”
I hang up the phone, strap on my backpack, and head out my front door and down the street.
I live in the smallest little coastal town in Maine. It’s a tourist destination because of the beautiful historic lighthouses and the infamous Lobster Landing, which is the quirkiest gift shop you’ll ever step in, but it’s huge and full of everything Maine and yummy. The owners, the Knightlys, are to me the town mayors and have revived the area with their family business. You know how Chip and Joanna Gaines pretty much put Waco, Texas back on the map? That’s what it’s like with the Knightlys. Although, not to that extent, but there has been talk around town that they want to expand into a restaurant too. Won’t that be the talk of the town? A new restaurant run by the Knightlys. Yum, I’d eat there, especially if the boys act as servers.
“Good morning, Rylee.” Speak of the devil.
“Griffin, how are you?”
Griffin Knightly, the oldest of the four brothers, handsome as ever, has an absolute heart of gold. He’s a volunteer fireman, works at his family’s shop, and was the heartthrob, jock, and prom king thirteen years ago, and still sexy as ever.
“Good. Getting ready for another fast-paced day at the shop. We spent all night making fudge because we were cleaned out this past weekend.”
“Ooo, you have more in stock? I might have to stop by later. Please tell me you made some more of my favorite.”
“S’mores? Of course, it’s our third bestseller. Want me to save a chunk for you?” We cross the street, Griffin placing his hand on my shoulder until the road is clear. Seriously, this guy looks out for everyone.
“Would that be asking too much?”
“Nah, nothing is too much for our resident romance author.” He winks at me and starts toward Lobster Landing as I walk toward the coffee shop. Pointing at me, he adds, “No kicking old ladies out of their chairs today.”
> “That was one time,” I whine, hating how word gets around this small town.
Laughing, he gives me a salute goodbye and pops into his family’s shop.
If things were different, I would go for any of the Knightly brothers. Well, not Brig and Reid, they’re a little younger than me, but Rogan and Griffin, yes please . . .
What stops me you might ask? Well, it’s hard to explain, but the boys believe their love lives are cursed. Cursed. And of course, as a result, they’re often the talk of the town if seen on a date, or even walking close to any female not a family member. I don’t believe all the talk, but I’m a fairly private person. So, sadly, being a spectacle for the entire East Coast because I’m dating a Knightly isn’t my thing. Walking into the Snow Roast, I’m greeted by Ruth behind the counter and the overhead bell. “Rylee, good morning.”
There’s something to be said about a small town and everyone knowing you. Yes, having people in your business is a downfall, but when I’m greeted by a genuine smile and an interest in my little world, it brightens my day.
“Good morning, Ruth. How are you this morning?”
“Oh good. Brig Knightly was jogging around shirtless this morning. Made a couple of passes by the coffee house. Quite the sight.” She wiggles her eyebrows, causing me to giggle.
Ah yes, Brig. There’s not much one can say about Brig other than “hummina, hummina, hummina.” *insert drool*
“Let me guess, you ran out the Snow Roast, chasing after him with a bottled water for hydration only so you could get an up close and personal look at him.”
Ruth plays with the strings of her apron that are tied at the front of her stomach and reddens. “I might have at the first pass.”
I shake my head. “And . . .”
“He squeezed the bottle before I could release it and it spurted water everywhere, drenching me. This is my second outfit of the day.” Ruth lives in the apartment above her coffee shop, making it an easy change for her. But, poor Ruth. If anyone deserves some loving, it’s the beautiful and kind girl before me. Brig would be lucky to have someone like Ruth in his arms.
I shake my head. “Oh Ruth, you’re so sweet. Did he at least say thank you?”
“He always does.” Ruth starts pouring me a cup of coffee in my favorite mug. “But, you know, it would be nice if maybe he stopped to chat for a second.”
“During his workout?”
She hands me the cup of coffee, and the smell of the freshly ground beans hits me, igniting my senses, giving me a jolt to jump-start my day.
“Well, you know, might be nice to chat.”
I slide a ten-dollar bill to her that will cover a few cups and say, “Ruth, if you want to talk to him, go talk to him at the store, or at the Har-bar.” Get it? Harbor, but said with a Boston-ish accent? It’s the local pub in town, the Har-Bar.
“Oh no, I would never.” She shakes her head and starts cleaning the counter. Changing the subject quickly, she says, “Have to get some words in today?”
Resigning from the previous conversation, I nod. “Don’t I always?”
“Well, let me know if you need anything.” She nods to my special corner. “Your sex chair is available if you need to write any of those racy scenes of yours.”
Holding back the giant eye-roll and exhale that wants to escape me, I smile kindly. “Thanks, Ruth.”
Walking to my corner, I set down my cup of coffee, open up my backpack, and pull out my laptop just as my phone vibrates in the front pocket.
Once I set up everything from my earphones to my notebook to my water bottle, I look at my phone and my heart starts to beat rapidly in my chest.
Beck.
Should I? Should I tempt myself to see what he has to say today? Or should I ignore it, avoiding all torture of what he’s up to?
Hmm . . .
Who am I kidding? I open that bad boy up like it’s about to detonate in ten seconds if I don’t read it.
Beck: Good morning, Rylee. Did you know sometimes I have to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn so I can get into exhibits for touch-ups before park goers arrive? Today I’ll be hanging out in the red pandas exhibit. They had babies a few months ago, and we’re getting the exhibit ready for their arrival. Kind of like a welcome to your new home painting. What are you up to?
Is it just me, or is it super sexy that this man can not only paint, but is designing a nursery for red panda babies?
I mean, my ovaries are crying right now because he’s almost too perfect. Funny, resourceful, kind, can dance—no, he can dance—and his tongue . . . his hands . . . his . . . Stop. Don’t go there, Rylee.
Setting my phone down without an answer, I open my laptop, then take a sip from my coffee. Ooo, still a little hot. That’s going to have to sit a few more minutes before I gulp it down.
Reading over the scene I wrote yesterday, I refresh my mind on where the story is going and then glance at my phone.
Focus, Rylee.
Taking a deep breath, I put my earbuds in, turn on my Spotify playlist geared toward the book I’m writing, and place my fingers on the keyboard.
. . .
Okay, here we go, start typing.
. . .
Do all the typing. Type away. Make the words happen.
. . .
Maybe I need a little more coffee.
Picking up my mug, I blow on the steamy liquid and take another sip. Okay, cooling down. That’s good stuff right there.
Sighing, I look out the window and watch some of the early morning tourists hit up Patty’s Pancake House. They won’t regret their decision.
Now watching the people heading to Port Snow’s fifties diner, have fun eating food that tastes like the grill in the back. Puke. How that place is still open, I have no idea. All the locals stay as far away as possible besides the older generation who apparently like when their food tastes like they licked an overused kitchen grill.
Did you throw up in your mouth? Yeah, me too.
Okay, focus. I take one more sip. Let’s get to work.
One big sniff and a gulp and we’re good to go.
Sighing, I place my fingers on the keyboard and stare at my computer.
Red pandas, what do those look like again? Already connected to the Internet, I open up my search engine and type red panda into Google.
Aww.
Look at those little itty-bitty faces. These guys should totally be domestic animals.
Let me see what the babies look like.
I wait for the search results to—
Oh.
My.
GOD!
Stop what you’re doing and look at red panda babies. Look at ALL the red panda babies.
They’re just so cute and fluffy and those faces . . . I just want to squish them.
Oh, look at that. You can adopt one and get pictures of them every month. Well, how can I NOT do that after seeing these little guys?
I wonder what they’re exhibits look like? And what goes into an exhibit? Is that paint safe for the animals? What kind of paintbrushes do you need to make that kind of texture? Is that a horsehair brush? Do they make those still? I wonder what kind of horses have the best hair? Well, black horses are the most stealth in my opinion. But Clydesdales, what majestic animals with their hairy hoof feet and giant asses. God, if I was a horse I would want to be a Clydesdale, hands down. Or would I want to be a mustang? Mustangs are such hot cars, especially the older ones. Doesn’t Jay Leno have Mustangs? Or is that someone else? Jay Leno, he likes denim, a lot. Jimmy Fallon doesn’t wear a lot of denim, at least in pictures. Hey, wasn’t Jennifer Lawrence on The Tonight Show last night. . .
One YouTube black hole and an hour later, I have zero words, I’ve acquired too much information about red pandas, and I know that Jennifer Lawrence and Emma Stone are best friends. Kind of wish they would make their duo into a trio and invite me in with open arms. I think we’re best friends and they don’t even know it.
My phone buzzes next to me and without thin
king about it, I open it up to find a picture of Beck wearing a white T-shirt, a grey sock beanie, leather bracelets, and a paintbrush in hand pointing to the exhibit behind him. He has the same vibe as a younger, more handsome version of Colin Farrell.
God, he’s so hot.
Like . . . my nipples are hardening hot.
Beck: Touching up some leaves. In one of the leaves, I scrolled your name inside. Knowing you, you probably looked up red pandas and are dying over how cute they are. So I made sure you’re here with them. I’ll take a pic to show you.
Another text message comes in, and it’s of a painted leaf on the wall. You can barely tell, but written along the veins of the leaf is my name, right there, on the wall of the red panda exhibit.
Hell.
Fucking hell.
I press my lips together, leaning my head backward. Did you hear that? That cracking sound? Yeah, that’s my icy exterior starting to crumble.
Damn him and his use of red pandas. Damn him and his thoughtfulness. Who does that?
I bite on my bottom lip and pose my fingers at the keys.
Do not write him back, Rylee.
Don’t you dare start typing.
Don’t you—
My fingers move across the screen of my phone.
Oh you defiant bitch!
My fingers press send, and I immediately hate myself.
That’s until I see the little dots appear on the screen, because he’s typing back, and damn it, I get so freaking excited that I reposition myself in my chair, getting ready for a long conversation with a boy I shouldn’t be talking to when in fact, I should be writing.
But hell if I can hold back any longer.
Seven days.
Twenty-one messages.
Small moments in my days that made me smile, just as he would want.
Small moments that show me I’m not as forgettable as I’ve always believed myself to be.
Messages that hit their intended mark.
Connection.
With me.
He broke me.
I’m cracked and exposed.
And I think I need Beck to fill me up again.