Dare You To (Pushing the Limits #2)(82)

“No!” my father roars.

I lean back in my chair, disgusted with them.

Disgusted with myself. Since Mark walked away, I’ve been so obsessed with the fact that he left that I never really listened to what my parents were saying. It makes me realize that I probably never really listened to Mark either.

No wonder he left. How could anyone live with so much hate?

A sickening nausea strikes and I grow dizzy.

Does Mark believe I feel the same way as my parents?

Dad rams the chair into the table, then stalks away. “Mark made his choice. You wanted to talk to Ryan tonight—talk to him. I’ll be in my office.”

Mom stands. “He should hear it from you.”

In the door frame, he pauses and looks back at me. “I’ll be running for my party’s nomination for mayor in the spring. Your mother and I don’t want you dating Beth Risk.

Be her friend at school, but we can’t risk the bad publicity if she’s trouble. Do you understand?”

My mind races to process. Dad’s running for mayor. Mom wants Mark back in the house.

I’ve let down my brother. They both want me to dump Beth. “You said that you never wanted to be mayor.”

But Mom has wanted him to. Her dad was mayor. Her grandfather was mayor. It’s a tradition she’s always craved to continue.

Neither Mom nor Dad will look at me or at each other, and neither appears to want to discuss his nomination. “About Beth…” I say.

Dad cuts me off. “The girl is off-limits.”

“You should date Gwen again,” Mom says.

“Her father is going to back your father.”

The seat jerks under me when I stand and my sudden movement causes Mom to flinch. I stare at them both, waiting for one of them to make sense of anything they’ve said. When they remain silent, I finally understand why Mark left.

Beth

I DON’T OWN A JACKET. Never have. I always told Isaiah and Noah my body temperature runs hot when actually it runs low. In Kentucky, autumn weather can be a bitch. Hot in the afternoons. Cold at night. This morning, the slick dew covering Ryan’s pasture permeates past my worn shoes to my socks.

Few things suck more than cold, wet feet.

I stop in my tracks. Losing my best friend sucks. I let myself feel the ache, then continue forward. One day Isaiah will realize that we’re just friends. One day he’ll find me—even if I’m at the ocean. Friendships like ours are too strong to die.

Today is parent–teacher conferences and I can’t think of a better way to spend a day free from school than with Ryan. Actually, I can’t think of a better way to spend any day. My time with Ryan is dwindling and I want to make the most of every moment with him.

Thump. I first heard that sound when I came out of the woods. Every few seconds, the sound repeats. Thump. Instead of heading straight for Ryan’s house, I decided to follow the thumps and I’m glad I did when I see beautiful, glistening, sun-kissed skin. Wearing only a pair of nylon athletic pants, Ryan winds back then hurls a ball toward a painted target on a piece of plywood. Thump. The ball hits square in the middle.

“And you wonder why people think jocks are stupid,” I say. Ryan whirls around with wide eyes and I continue, “It’s fifty degrees outside and you aren’t wearing a shirt.”

A cold breeze blows through the open pasture, causing goose bumps to prick my arms. Okay, possibly not the smartest opening line since rubbing my arms would be the definition of both hypocrisy and irony.

Ryan grabs his shirt off the ground and walks over to me. The early-morning rays highlight the curves of the muscles in his abdomen. My heart flutters like a bird shaking water from its wings. God, he’s gorgeous.

Sexy. A vision. Too perfect for someone like me.

“I’m cooling down,” Ryan says. Caught up in staring at his body, I have to pause to remember what I last said. Ryan gives me a cocky smile and to my mortification, I blush.

What is with me and all this blushing?

Ryan caresses my burning cheeks, and my heart trembles again.

“I love it when you do that,” he says.

Pull it together, Beth. This is not why you’re here. Ryan has dealt with enough of my crap over the past two months and for some reason he insists on looking at me like I’m the princess to his prince. He is a prince. I’m not a princess, but I can help with his happily-ever-after before I leave his life for good.

Ryan withdraws his hand, but remains annoyingly close—with his shirt still off.

“Don’t you ever get tired of baseball?” I ask.

“No.” Ryan finally pulls his shirt over his head. “I wake up every morning at six, run two miles, then pitch. There’s not a morning it gets old.”

His routine fits him. Perfectly. But then I think of him at his computer. His fingers flying over the keyboard. His eyes seeing a world beyond the one his body belongs to. “Do you write every night?”

Ryan combs his fingers through my hair and my roots flip over. What normally is a motion that sends tingles down my spine instead brings a sense of dread. His eyes narrow at the roots and I know what he sees: a half inch of golden-blond hair.

He tears his eyes away and does a good job of pretending the malformation doesn’t exist.

“With that short story due? Yeah, I write every night.” Ryan shrugs and stares at the ground.