Magnolia (22 page)

“Just kiss me, Ryder.”

So he does.

Does he ever.

And, of course, that's when the dang-blasted tornado siren decides to go off again.

Seriously?

Ryder steps back from me, looking a little disoriented. It
takes us both a few seconds to get our bearings. “Storage room,” he says. “I'll get the cats; you get the dogs?”

I just nod, tugging my tank top back into place. Somehow it'd gotten pushed up, bunched around my bra. And Ryder . . . At some point he must have taken off his T-shirt, because he's shirtless now, his jeans riding low on his hips.

Focus, Jemma. The dogs. I've got to get the dogs.

Ryder has already taken off in the direction of the kitchen to get the cats. I force myself into action, pushing all extraneous thoughts from my head as I grab a lantern and search for Beau and Sadie.

I find them both in my parents' room. The siren sent Beau under the bed, and Sadie's lying on it, at the foot. I tuck her under one arm and slap my thigh, whistling for Beau. “C'mon, boy. Back to the closet. Let's go!”

He crawls out and follows me obediently, his tail tucked between his legs. This time, I beat Ryder to the shelter. As soon as I set down my lantern and shoo the dogs down to their end of the room, I stick my head out the door and call for him. “Ryder? What's taking you so long?”

“I'm on my way!” he yells back.

It feels like forever before he pushes open the door and ducks inside. Then I see why it took him so long. He's somehow got the three cats tucked under one arm and the cake plate clutched in the other hand. No spare for a flashlight or
lantern—so he accomplished this all in the dark.

“Here,” he says, handing off the cake to me before releasing Kirk, Spock, and Sulu into the crate and latching the door.

“Seriously, Ryder? You brought the cake?”

He shrugs. “I was hungry.”

Hmm, I guess all that kissing worked up his appetite. For cake. I'm not sure if I should be offended or not. On the plus side, he doesn't look like he's about to puke. So we're making progress as far as his fear of storms goes. I guess that's something.

“Did you happen to bring a fork?” I ask, setting the plate on the makeshift tabletop.

He produces two from his pocket, holding them up triumphantly. So we eat cake while the sirens blare. Actually, it doesn't sound that bad out there. Still, the fact that we're so calm—that
Ryder's
so calm—should tell you how routine this is getting. As long as we don't hear that awful freight-train sound, we're good.

“What happened to the cake?” he asks between bites. “It looks like someone mutilated it while I was gone.”

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Guess I did some stress bingeing. You realize you're not wearing a shirt, right?”

He glances down and shrugs, his cheeks flushing ever so slightly. “Sorry 'bout that.”

It might seem silly that he's apologizing, but at Magnolia
Landing, you don't come to the table unless you're fully dressed. It's one of Laura Grace's most unbendable rules—you dress for meals, even breakfast. Not that this counts as a meal, and I'm not sure you could call this plywood-on-top-of-a-crate thing a “table.” But still . . .

By the time the sirens shut off, we've completely cleaned the plate, even scraping off the hardened frosting with our fingers. “That was quick,” I say, setting aside the now-empty plate.

Ryder nods. “I guess we should give it a minute or two. You know, make sure it's not coming back on.”

So we wait. Silently. Ryder can't even meet my eyes, and all I want to do is stare at his lips. This is crazy. I mean, what do we do now—now that the sirens are off and the cake is gone?

Apparently, the answer is pretend like nothing happened. At least, that's what we do when we leave the storm shelter five minutes later. Ryder retrieves his T-shirt from the front hall and puts it on. We walk the dogs. We make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for supper.

While we eat, we listen to the radio. That's when we learn that our entire county is under a boil-water alert, thanks to a power outage at the water treatment facility. We've been drinking bottled water all along, but now we'll have to brush our teeth with it too. Great.

We also learn that a tornado touched down on campus over
at the university. No injuries have been reported, but a couple buildings are heavily damaged.

And, apparently, our road isn't the only one washed out. There's been widespread flash-flooding. The mandatory curfew is still in effect, so we couldn't go anywhere even if our cars weren't crushed.

After we finish our sandwiches, we play another game of Scrabble. This time, Ryder wins. Honestly, my head's just not in it. Besides, it's late. I'm tired.

“You ready for bed?” Ryder asks, as if he's read my mind.

I push aside the game board. “Yeah. You?”

“Definitely.” He stretches, reaching toward the ceiling—exposing a swath of tanned skin between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans. “Sounds like the storm will have moved out by morning. We're going to have a lot of cleanup to do.”

I nod. “I guess we should take the dogs out again first.”

We do—quickly. It's still raining, just a drizzle now. But I feel like I'm going to start sprouting fuzzy green moss any minute now. Everything feels damp—my skin, my clothes, the furniture. It's permeated everything. I mean, Mississippi's pretty humid in general, but right now I'm afraid I'll never feel dry again.

I grab one of the lanterns we've left in the mudroom and head toward my parents' room, expecting Ryder to follow.

But he pauses at the bottom of the stairs. “I guess I should . . .
you know. The guestroom. Should be safe upstairs now.”

I just stare at him, trying to decide if he's serious. But then he reaches for the banister, and I realize he is. “You don't have to,” I say, my cheeks flushing hotly. “I mean . . . I'm fine with you down here. With me.”

I can't believe I just said that. But, jeez, everything's so awkward now.

“You sure?” he asks, taking a step toward me.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah, I'm . . . you know, getting used to having you around. Anyway,” I say breezily, “we might get some more severe stuff tonight. Probably shouldn't take any chances.”

Oh my God, I'm practically begging him to stay with me. What is
wrong
with me?

“You're probably right,” Ryder says, relenting.

I try to think of something clever to say, but come up blank. So I turn and stalk off to my parents' room instead.

Ryder finds me in the bathroom, brushing my teeth with bottled water. He stands in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame, watching me. Our gazes meet in the mirror—which, of course, makes gooseflesh rise on my skin. I spit in the sink and take a swig of water to rinse.

“Jem?”

I turn, the marble countertop digging into my back. He moves toward me, closing the distance between us. I sway
slightly on my feet as he reaches for me, his dark eyes filled with heat. His gaze sweeps across my face, warming my skin, making my breath catch in my throat.

Oh man.
“Yeah?”

“I have to ask you something,” he says.

“Ask—ask me what?” I stammer.

He hesitates before answering. “What's the deal with you and Patrick Hughes?”

It takes me several seconds to find my voice. “What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . Patrick is my friend and all. I just . . . I figured I should ask what's going on with you two before I . . . well, before we do something we might regret.”

I blink several times, trying to figure out what he's talking about. And then it hits me. “Oh my God. Are you saying that . . . I cheated on him? With you?”

“I just wanted to make sure. If y'all are serious, well . . .” He trails off with a shrug.

“We're . . . I don't even know. We've only gone out a couple of times.” I shake my head. “God, Ryder, why'd you even have to bring him up?”

I haven't even
thought
about Patrick, not once since I saw him last. I definitely wasn't thinking about him when Ryder and I were making out. And I'm pretty sure I was about to break off whatever we had going, anyway.

But now . . . now I feel guilty, like some kind of slut or something. I'm so angry with myself—angry and ashamed. And Ryder . . . I can only imagine what he thinks about me now. “Maybe you should sleep upstairs,” I say.

“Okay.” His voice is soft, placating. “If that's what you want.”

I nod. “It's probably for the best.”

But it isn't what I want, not really. And . . . okay, I know it sounds stupid, but I want him to realize that. I want him to try to convince me otherwise. I want him to tell me he's sorry that he brought it up, that he understands things are a little fuzzy with me and Patrick, that it doesn't matter anyway. That he wants to be
here
, with me.

But he doesn't. Of course he doesn't.

I
blink several times, turning to shield my eyes from the blinding sun streaming in through the windows. With a groan, I drag a pillow over my eyes. I'm vaguely aware of something wet on my ankle, and I sit up sharply to find Sadie at my feet, licking my exposed skin sticking out from the sheets.

“How late did I sleep?” I mumble, reaching for my cell on the bedside table.

It's 10:37 a.m. Wow. My phone still has no bars, of course. And now the battery's about dead too. Oh joy.

I shove aside the tangled sheets and rise, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I better take the dogs out. I don't even bother to get dressed—I'm still in my sleep shorts and tank top, but it's not like I'm trying to impress anyone. Specifically Ryder.

I briefly wonder where he is. I went to bed right after he left me in the bathroom last night. Not that I fell asleep right away. Oh, no. That would have been way too easy. Instead, I lay there for hours on end, listening to him move around upstairs. Right now there's no sound coming from above. Maybe he left. I
hope
he left. I'm too embarrassed to face him.

But he hasn't. When I take the dogs out, I find him clearing the debris off our cars.

“Hey,” he calls out. “I think your car is fine. You've got some dents and a crack in the windshield, but nothing major.” He tosses a leafy branch toward a big pile behind him.

Okay, so we're back to pretending that nothing happened. Good. I'm down with that. “What about your Durango?”

“She's pretty banged up. Gonna need some bodywork and a whole new windshield.”

“She?”

He looks at me blankly. “What?”

“You called it a ‘she,' ” I point out.

“Oh. Right.” Color creeps into his cheeks. “Dana Durango.”

“You named your car Dana?”

He just shrugs.

“Oookay. You need any help?”

“Nah, I'm just about done here.” He pauses, eyeing me sharply. “You sleep well?”

“Yeah, I was out like a light,” I lie, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You?”

He shrugs. “It was awfully warm up there.”

“Huh,” is all I say.

“Did you eat breakfast?” he asks.

“Not yet. I will as soon as I take the dogs in. What about you?”

“Nah. I was waiting for you. Just let me clean up, and I'll meet you in the kitchen.”

“Sounds good.” Okay, we are just
so
awkward now. This is crazy. I can't even imagine sitting across the kitchen table from him, trying to make small talk. This is painful enough as it is.

I finish up with the dogs and take them back inside, doing my best to clean off their muddy feet before I set them free. I'm going to have to mop the floors after breakfast, I realize. There's muddy paw prints from one end of the house to the other. And now that there's actually sunlight streaming in through the broken living room window, I can see that I didn't get all the blood up.

What a mess.

Hurrying into the kitchen, I dump food into the dogs' and cats' bowls and then head back to my parents' room to get my cell phone. As soon as we're done eating, I'm going to have to go sit out in the car for a little bit and charge it. I need it fully powered once the signal comes back—
if
it ever comes back.

I glance down at the screen as I retrieve it from the bedside table and hit the on button just for kicks. And . . . oh my God! The bars are back! My pulse begins to race as little notification thingies start popping up on my screen. Missed calls. Voicemail messages.

Hallelujah!

Clutching it in one hand, I sit on the bed and scroll through the list of missed calls. Twenty-seven missed calls from my parents.
Twenty-seven?
What the heck? I guess they've been trying to call me for days, not realizing the service was out. And there's two missed calls from Lucy, both in the past ten minutes. I click over to my voice mail. There's just two messages, one from my dad's cell and one from Lucy.