WHEN SHE TURNS THE CORNER, Lyne cannot believe what she sees. The Camaro is parked on her street. What is he doing here? There is a reason she has not been returning his phone calls! And now here he is. Her stomach flutters but she won’t admit that it is more anticipation than anger.
She pushes open the front door. The rumble of Rick’s voice punctuated by her mother’s laughter stops her cold. Her mother is talking easily to the boy she has been avoiding.
She stalks in. “What are you doing here?”
“Lyne!” Mom’s voice is sharp.
She speaks quieter, but the edge is still there. “Why are you here, Rick?”
“I wanted to make sure your phone was working,” he says around a mouthful of pumpkin pie. There is an open tub of Cool Whip in front of him, a spoon slouching off to the side.
“You call my cell, not the house,” she says.
“Thought maybe you’d lost the charger, you know?” He sounds unsure of himself and that little-boy look makes her stomach fluttery again. This is how he sounds when he tells her about fights with his father. This is how he sounds when he needs her.
“Whatever,” she says. She plays with the dangling heart pendant.
“Yeah, your mom said your phone was alright, too. Your house phone.” Rick sits up a little straighter, splays his hand on the table top.
She misses those hands all over her. She doesn’t object to those hands when they are soft. “Rick . . . ”
“I know.” He darts a quick look at Mom. “I know, okay?”
She sinks into the chair next to him. He touches his knee to hers. He must have been desperate to come here, to sit in the kitchen with her mother. God. This has to mean something.
“This is really good pumpkin pie, Mrs. Rutger.”
“Thank you, Rick. Would you like a slice, Lyne?”
“No, Mom.”
“I’m sorry, okay?” Rick says quickly, quietly. He clasps her hand and she can’t believe how having him touch her like this makes everything she wants to say fly out of her head. How is she going to make him understand that she doesn’t want to do that with him? How can she make him understand she doesn’t want to get pregnant?
“Rick.”
Then Mom speaks. “Whatever it is, I’m sure you kids can work it out. Why don’t you take a drive, find some place quiet to talk?”
No! Panic rises in her. She cannot be her mother. Her fingers trail along her necklace. But why should she be? Rick is not like her father. Rick has so much more. The way he is looking at her right now, those grey eyes begging for forgiveness, clouding over with need, telling her she is important. And that fluttery feeling is back again. She nods at him. “Okay.”
Rick grins widely. “Thanks for the pie, Mrs. Rutger.” Then he turns to her.
With his hand on the curve of her ass, he is immediately back to the boy with the cocky attitude that drives her wild, who makes all the girls at school want him. And he is choosing her.