“You cooked. I’ll clean. I don’t want you doin’ any dishes ‘til you get in to see the specialist once your insurance is active and your medication has had a chance to kick in.” His words warm me to my core, and the fact that he’s thought about my health beyond getting me on his insurance plan is so sweet. It feels like my heart isliterallymelting in my chest. “How’ve you been feeling this week? You haven’t seemed like you’ve been in any visible pain, but that might be optimistic of me.”
I give him a small smile, remaining seated at the table. “I’m definitely not pain-free, but I’m doing betterthis week. I have my highs and lows, but I was dancing while cooking earlier, so that’s an improvement for sure.”
“I’m glad to hear that, darlin’. You have any plans for what you’d like to do as far as teaching again?”
I shrug, unsure what to really say at this point. It’s all been such an adjustment from my old life these past few years. “I’ve started calling around to studios nearby and haven’t had any takers yet. My dream has always been to open my own studio, so maybe this was just a push in the right direction.” Images of dance classes taught at the old red barn flit through my mind, the same way they have off and on for years. “I’m hoping I can offer classes remotely soon since I’m worried there won’t be much of a clientele around here, but that doesn’t feel sustainable long-term.”
He hums, deep in thought, as he rinses the last dish. When he’s finished, he turns around, drying his hand on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, and leans against the kitchen counter. “I’d be happy to put out some feelers in the area and find out if any studios are hiring or would be willing to add on Latin dance lessons,” he tells me.
My first instinct is to tell him no, but frankly, I need this to work, and if that’s going to happen, I have to be able to do what I love. His help would make things so much easier. “That’d be really great, Ry. I appreciate it.”
He finishes the dishes and takes his seat across from me again, reaching out to cradle my hands. His eyes flit from our hands, where our new rings sit as evidence of the massive change we’ve just committed to, his teeth buried in his plump bottom lip. “I want you to know I support anything and everything you want to do, okay?” he asks, and my gut starts to somersault with tension.This doesn’t sound good.
“Okay…”
He gives my hands a quick squeeze before his eyes finally find mine again. “You mentioned that if things got really tough,you could go back to Dallas and work with Karmella and Yanet again. Is that what you want though?”
I shake my head, no thought necessary. “No, Ry. I’ve missed entirely too much of Isabela’s life already, andthisis my home. If I can make things work here, I want to. I just find it comforting to know there’s somewhere I can fall back on.”
He nods slowly, then runs the tip of his tongue over the slope of his bottom lip. The movement has no right to be as sinfully delicious as it is, but here I am, clenching my thighs together at the sight. His next words take me off guard.
“I won’t pretend to fully grasp the weight of what being Latine, especially in Western Oklahoma, means for you, your job prospects, or any of the other ways that you’ve always had to work harder to earn the respect that’s freely given to those who aren’t BIPOC. So I don’t want you to think I’m dismissing any of your concerns or how they might impact your ability to start your own business outside of this town.” My brows pinch, and he continues. “Iknowyou’re willing to put in the extra work, but what if things could be a little easier for you by having the support of people who watched you grow up?” He squeezes my hands again in a reassuring gesture. “When we were kids, you always told me the red barn would be the perfect place for a dance studio, and I couldn’t agree more. What do you think about that now?”
My mouth hangs open. I blink slowly at him in bewilderment. He takes my silence for something it isn’t and backtracks. “I don’t want you to feel stuck here or anything, but I don’t want you to leave or give you another reason to leave me again, and I just thought that maybe?—”
I pull my hands from his grasp, lean over the table, and slap a hand over his mouth. “Stop,” I whisper. “Just stop talking.”
I suck in a breath and will my racing heart to slow. “It’s perfect, Ry. It’s just what I’ve always wanted.”
He rewards me with a massive smile Ican feel beneath my palm. I drop my hand to get a glimpse of it, and it’s every bit as stunning as I’d expected. “But we need to figure out a payment plan because I don’t have much in savings.”
“You’re my wife, Lols. What’s yours is yours, and what’s mine is also yours,” he says with a lopsided grin.
“It’s not real, Ryder. I couldn’t accept something like that. I’m willing to offer you fifty percent of the income I collect from classes until I’ve paid off whatever amount we agree upon, and then I’ll continue giving you twenty percent each month,” I tell him with finality in my tone.
“You really don’t have to?—”
“I want to, Ry. It’s important to me.”
He gives me a resigned nod. “Anything for you, darlin’. Now, you wanna watch a movie? Tonight’s your pick.”
He’s madeeverynightmy pick. And now, he’s managed to help me make my dreams come true with a gesture he doesn’t fully understand the weight of.
Chapter Twenty-Four
IN MY ARMS
WEDNESDAY, MAY 28
Reggaeton musicand familiar savory scents waft through the air, greeting me as I hop out of the truck. Lola’s got the kitchen window cracked open, and I can hear her horrendous singing, the sound bad enough that it rivals nails on a chalkboard. It’s her one and only fault, and yet, I’m still grinning ear to ear at the sound of her making herself comfortable in our home.
The sharp clang of my ringtone chiming in my pocket makes me groan, my shoulders slumping when I pull my cell out, only to be greeted with the name of a man I’d hoped I’d never hear from again.
“This is Ryder Lockhart,” I answer quickly, stopping at the bottom of the porch, hoping to save Lola from any reminder that my ex-wife even exists.
“Mr. Lockhart, this is Chad Calhoun, Lemmon Meringue Lockhart’s attorney,” he says, his hoarse, cigarette-roughened voice greeting me, grating on my nerves at my last name being attached to Lemmon in any way.
“I know who you are, Chad, and I sincerely hope you’d know your client’s name, consideringyouwere the one whorepresented her in court when she tried to convince the judge that half ofmyfamily's ranch belonged to her.”
