The late afternoon sun carried the hot sting of an encroaching summer. Jenna downed her rake and stepped back, pulling a small towel from her back pocket and dabbing at the sweat streaming down her neck.
Her row of newly planted samplings and wild flowers emanated an earthy scent, while the pile of pulled weeds by her feet held a competing grassy smell. Nearby, a stack of empty fifty-six-liter pine mulch bags reminded why her body ached.
She’d singled-handedly shoveled the whole lot, but not before turning and enriching the soil. The ache in her muscles was a welcome friend. The pain of getting stronger. Of breathing new life into land that had been once neglected.
“Here you go.”
She startled at Rhys, now standing beside her, his long torso looming, and a hand extending a beading glass of lemon water. He’d stayed away from her all day. Not that she blamed him. But now, she took the glass in a slow and suspicious movement.
“Thanks.” She turned and gulped the cool drink, a refreshing break she hadn’t known she’d needed.
“You work fast.” He jutted his chin to the new array of native Purple Coneflowers and yellow Hoary Puccoon along his front fence.
“Still a lot to do.” She handed the empty glass back. “But once settled in, what you have will be low-maintenance, and those flowers will encourage the bees along too.”
His gaze slipped from the garden to her. He didn’t say anything for the longest time, his pupils only darting about as though he tried to figure her out like some kind of complex math problem. “Need more water?”
His diversion had her frowning, but she tucked her towel away and worked on tugging off her gloves. “I ran out about an hour ago. So, sure.”
Again, he said nothing for too long before he finally offered, “Go sit by the water. There’ll be shade, and I’ll be back soon.”
Her heart drummed a disconcerted beat, not quite sure why he was being suddenly so nice, but she forced a firm nod and turned for the river.
While she trudged the fifty or so yards to the river’s edge, her mind stuck on this morning’s exchange with the hints of humor and semblances of warmth. Far too many reminders of why they’d once been friends… And then, more than friends.
The welcome breeze off the water cooled her skin, and she stilled at the soft and familiar whoosh of willow branches, before folding her legs beneath her until she sat on the firm, dry ground.
This part of the river swelled or dwindled, depending on the seasons. A thin trickle by summer’s end, or a middling ten yards this time of year—the depth steeper than the width implied.
The light snapping of twigs announced Rhys’s approach, and he soon took a seat at her side and handed her more water.
He clasped his own drink, and she stared at his profile as his Adam’s apple bobbed through a long sip.
“How’s the inside coming along?” She pressed her glass to her cheek, a deflective movement that soothed, nonetheless.
“Not as fast as I’d like.” His words held a readable tension, and her heart sank a little at what he implied.
He couldn’t get away from Harlow fast enough.
She pushed her stare ahead and tried not to ask why. Why did he hate this place so much?
A little annoyed. A little confused. She let the oppressive silence grow before his voice cut in again. “Why are you still alone, Jenna?”
Though she jolted at the question, he didn’t look at her, so he didn’t notice her scowl. “What does that mean?”
He gave an easy shrug, his elbows rested atop bent knees, his half-finished glass dangling from its rim between his fingers. “You didn’t join most other women in this town. You didn’t settle down.”
Her scowl drew harder, and the space between her eyes felt tight. “Why would I?”
Now, he did turn his head to her, his open expression saying more than words could—the answer to her confusion being that she’d given him every sign that she was the type to settle down. All those years ago. When she’d begged him not to leave. All because she couldn’t imagine a future without him.
But she’d had no need to imagine because the future rolled on either way. And so, here she sat, eleven years on. No better. No worse. Just a different Jenna to who she’d once planned on being.
“Right.” Now she turned away, collecting a stone from beside her and flicking it back to the ground only a yard or so away. “Well, where’s your wife and ten kids?”
“Fair point.” Rhys splatted out a laugh, but she still didn’t look at him. “I guess I figured Harlow’s more a ‘settling down’ sorta town, but maybe that’s just cos the city never gave me a chance to, either.”
In her peripheral vision, he nodded back to the house. “Mind you, this big old house gives me second thoughts. If I were holding on to it, I’d lay loose rock in that empty patch down the side, and I’d set up a fire pit. Maybe hold the occasional bonfire night…”
She ticked one corner of her lip upward and shook her head. “Either way, since you are kicking on and all, you better not stick me with some dud neighbors.”
His lips pulled into a grin, and his eyes glittered like dark amber against the low sun. “Says the woman who flashes her tatas in the river each morning?”
A laugh burst from her, and she pressed her hand over her mouth to contain the sound, all while acknowledging the Dyer’s house would only ever sell to a family, and she’d need to curb her expressions of ‘freedom’ when that happened.
But of course, she’d never admit to an ability to restrain herself to this man, so she opted for a different line of chatter. “So, are you done with putting out fires?”
“Yeah, I guess.” His attention fell to the ground before him, the top of his spine bowing a little, the action stirring more questions than she had a right to ask. “Not that my job was only ever just ‘putting out fires.’”
“True.” She paused and took a sip of her water, drawing out what would be another change in mood. “Once, at Maynard’s, I got to talking to an ex-firefighter, like yourself. He said there’s lots of boring stuff too. You know, station duty, sweeping and mopping floors, testing and training… I can see why you left.”
He turned his head and eyed her for a while, before saying, “Don’t tell me you’re one of those women with a thing for firemen?”
Despite the inexplicable ache surrounding her heart at that question, she rolled her eyes and swatted a hand in his direction. “Oh, no. I didn’t sleep with that one. He wasn’t staying long enough for me to try.”
If her intention had been to hurt Rhys back, his overly still stare seemed to say she’d failed. Then again, he’d been the one to leave her to her own devices, so she maintained her right to occasionally flaunt the consequences of that choice.
“Your friend forgot to mention being the first on scene at a bomb threat, or the aftermath of a suicide or overdose, or turning homeless families onto the street because the abandoned home they’re squatting in isn’t up to code.” The planes of his cheeks smoothed, while his words hit her square in the chest like a metal fist busting through plates of bone. “And then there’s prying a toddler out of a crushed car and performing CPR until the EMTs arrive, only for that kid to die in your arms…”
His voice faded as though he caught himself saying more than intended; the quivering muscles around his eyes suggested his truth hurt him as much as he’d maybe sought to hurt her.
“And then you let go of the kid to see if there’s any hope for saving the parents?” She raised a brow and caught the roughness in her own tone. “Yeah, I’ve heard those stories too, Rhys… You know, there’s more to my life than screwing around.”
His expression dropped, and his lips parted, as though he wanted to rebut the claim. But he pressed his lips shut, his gaze dipping in admission of what she’d observed.
And she didn’t blame him, really. She’d been the one to plant those ideas. And even then, to some degree, those ideas held elements of truth.
He lowered his glass to the ground between them and turned back to the water.
“And screwing around isn’t the worst thing a person can do.” Not at all acknowledging what he’d just said, he shot to standing, taking some steps forward. “I’m gonna cool off in the river.”
His feet hadn’t hit the water before he tugged away his shirt and then stripped down to his briefs. As he waded into the river, she tried not to stare at the details of his broad, tanned back, especially not when that, too, revealed yet more changes.
Not just his size, but his scars.
The long one that ran from the top of his shoulder and traveled down, an impact wound, maybe from something sharp and heavy falling on or hitting him. And then the more discernible scar between his shoulder blades, white and uneven, and about the size of her hand. A long-healed burn.
Taking a break from that reality, she lowered her gaze and stared at the small remnants of melted ice cubes in her glass, all the while wondering why she didn’t cut her losses already and just go home.
Maybe she would. Maybe she’d just yell a goodbye and call it a day. Only when she lifted her head, Rhys was nowhere in sight.
Seconds passed, and she craned her neck, inspecting the still water, while her heart rate climbed.
Where is he?
An oppressive sense of dread withheld her next breaths. She hadn’t heard him climb from the river. Had he dived under? Surely, he’d resurface by now…
“Oh. Shit.” She jumped to her feet and knocked over her water in the process, but spilled drink be damned, she raced to the river bank.
Still no Rhys.
The blood in her veins ran cold. She searched some more. A series of bubbles rose and exploded to the river’s mostly still surface.
She knew enough about drowning to understand it happened quickly. Quietly. And there’d been cases of people in these parts tangling in river weeds and failing to break free.
Not wanting to waste time, she skidded down the steep bank and toward the water, her skin burning as rough rocks scraped her outer left thigh.
Pain gnawed in the background, a distant second thought to pulling Rhys ashore. Alive.
Meanwhile, fear launched her into the tepid river, her limbs slack, as she swam to where the bubbles had been. She dived to find him, the first attempt an empty-handed failure; the second, bringing his back into focus, and then his arm. She dragged at his wrist, only for him to flail wildly in her hold.
His sudden movement had her shooting back, and soon, she burst up through the surface, gasping for air amidst her shock. He stood before her now, frowning, while she screamed his name over and over again.
“What?” He looked her up and down, like she’d lost her mind or something, his hair dripping lines of liquid down his face. “What’s wrong?”
Only then did she pause long enough to grasp that the water only reached his chest. Plenty of room for him to stand. In other words, he’d never been in danger.
“I thought you were dead!” Her voice came out ragged through exploding breaths, while a sick feeling churned her tummy, and an unexpected sob tumbled out.
“I was doing a long dive. You know, working on my lung capacity.” His brow bent, and he tilted his head to one side. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Why? Why would you do that?” She thrust her hands out in a frantic gesture, still yelling, clearly not okay. “You’re not a firefighter anymore. Why?”
He shrugged, unlike her, seeming unperturbed. “Force of habit.”
And because his ease bothered her, and her instant tears embarrassed, she lashed out and pushed him hard in the chest. “I fucking thought you were dead!”
She pushed again, and he scrambled back a little before grabbing her wrists while she struggled and raged.
Not only was he not dead, but his “long dive” forced her to contemplate a world where he didn’t exist—which then dredged up old fears from when she’d been forced to let him go. Fears that he’d get seriously injured or die on the job.
She hated him for that. Hated him for leaving her and Harlow in the first place. Hated him for the rough and disorienting years she’d endured long after.
How dare he come back only to be so damn carefree about leaving again. His reemergence made her contemplate the “what ifs” of a life she’d never had.
What if he had stayed?
What if she’d never had to deal with that decade of curveballs? The disappointments that came with dating and being single. Her dealing with her dad’s decline alone. And then the funeral. And the house, which she’d loved and tended all on her own too.
She’d become stronger in Rhys’s absence but also more emotionally wounded. Still, she only had so much energy for rage, and she soon paused.
Wanting to leave this irritating man in her wake, she turned, only for him to tighten his grip around her wrists, where he nudged her around and forced her to witness the stern glower on his face. “I don’t need you to save me.”
The slight waver in his voice said otherwise, as did his ensuing silence and the dip in his expression. Maybe she wasn’t the only one holding back. Maybe, just maybe, she could use her built-up resilience to her advantage. To survive another tryst with this man.
Call it a fling. Or mutual therapy. But the ache of unfulfilled longing hurt her more than fear did, and he’d rejected her so many times already. What was one more time?
Except she wasn’t playing now and, from his steady eye contact and the stroke of his thumb over her wrist, neither was he.
She took a deep breath and shook off the tension encasing her heart, offering a softened tone of sincerity as she spoke again. “Then, maybe you could save me?”