Reckless Hearts (Oak Harbor #2)(10)

And totally unforgettable.

I know that to anyone on the outside, I might seem seriously crazy right about now. Even my friends back in New York can’t understand what I’m doing. They think it’s a harebrained scheme I’ll snap out of soon enough, like when one of my buddies packed it in to go learn to surf in Belize, or another got engaged to a hostess in Vegas. They lost their heads, tried something wild, but in the end, they were right back where they started soon enough: at their desk Monday morning, ready to face reality again.

But this is different.

I haven’t lost my head, if anything, I’ve found it again. That perfect life in New York I’d worked so hard to build shattered apart, and I never saw it coming. From having it all figured out, to finding everything was a lie: it’s enough to drive any man to take a long hard look at what he’s doing. What kind of life they want; how to make it right again. I already knew everything had to change by the time I took a left downtown on that neon, rainy street and found the answer I was looking for. I was right there on the edge, ready for a push.

And man, did Delilah make me fall.

There’s just something about her. I’ve never met a girl like this before: so completely, utterly at ease in who she is. Everything seems simple with her, like the answers have been staring me in the face all along. Just one flash of that gorgeous, joyful smile made me forget the mess of the past six months—and just one glimpse of the peach lace curves hiding under her blouse just about knocked me to the ground.

And that was before she kissed me.

I hit pause on that memory, before I get off-track. The roads out here are quiet and shady, winding through the country, and I have to keep my eyes peeled so I don’t miss the turn; I already overshot twice this week and wound up halfway to Wilmington before I realized my mistake. Today, I recognize the curve in the road and that old dogwood tree, its branches almost bent double to hide the broken-down fence, and the peeling red mailbox marking the turn.

Home sweet home.

The first time I followed the glorified dirt track out here, I nearly turned back a dozen times. Sure, I wanted something different, but this is a million miles from my slick Manhattan apartment, with the 24/7 doorman out front and views of the downtown city lights. Here, I don’t see another soul as I drive past open pasture fields, through the woods, and alongside a lazily-winding creek before finally arriving in front of the dilapidated set of buildings that passes for a home. “A real fixer-upper,” the owner said, but we both knew, I wasn’t buying it for the house. I’m here for the change of pace, the sound of birdsong in the trees.

The chance to start over, and maybe do things right this time.

I unload my bags from the truck and take them inside. Just a few essentials to get me settled in, but looking around at the leaking roof, peeling old wallpaper, and serious dampness problem, I’m wondering if I should have picked up a tent and sleeping bag instead.

“If it’s broke, then fix it.”

My grandpa’s favorite saying pops into my mind. I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. He’s the one who gave me my first toolbox, taught me how to take an engine apart and put it back together, and showed me what it’s like to sand and whittle a hunk of wood into something special, a sturdy table, or slim set of chairs. Those were some of the happiest summers of my life, learning right alongside him in his workshop back in Georgia, before he passed, and somehow I stepped on the conveyor belt towards a whole different world: the kind of life where furniture comes crafted at a designer showroom, sleek sports cars are toys to show off your latest bonus, and everything, even your damn soul, has a price tag in the end.

But that’s behind me now. My life was broken, so I’m fixing it, just like Grandpa said: stripping it down to the essentials, the way we used to with the cogs and carburetor spread over the front driveway all those hot summer afternoons. Sure, coming here is impulsive. Crazy. I’ve made my fortune on taking risks: checking the odds, playing the market, making sure all those little red flags pay off in my direction, but this is different. I’m not dealing with numbers on a screen anymore, but I’m sick of playing pretend. I made the smart moves my whole damn life, and look where that left me. No, this time, I needed to do it all differently.

Stop thinking, start following my instincts.

And what I felt in Delilah’s arms for that brief, reckless kiss seems worth the risk. It was the push I needed, and after that, everything fell into place so fast I didn’t have time to pause for doubts. A couple of weeks later, here I am with the blank slate I was looking for.

The question is, what am I going to do with it now?



I’m clearing junk from the workshop out back when I hear another engine coming up the track. I head around front and find a guy about my age in work boots and a Rolling Stones T-shirt staring up at the house. “Ryland?” I ask, going forward to meet him. His construction company, Callahan and Ray, came recommended by a friend, so they were one of my first calls after arriving in town.

“That’s me.” He shakes my hand. “Good to meet you. You weren’t lying when you said this place needed some work. Are you sure you don’t want to tear down and just go from the ground up?” he adds, taking a few steps to peer inside. “We could do something pretty spectacular with this square footage. My brother-in-law fancies himself an architect, but the guy knows his shit.”