Authors: Jillian Leeson
Only now do I realize I may have been wrong. He has never done anything to hurt me. On the contrary, everything he’s done proves that he cares for me. And just when I should finally be ready to trust him, what do I do? Chase him away.
I’ve tried to convince myself again and again that I’m better off without him, but my mind keeps on conjuring up memories of him—of his fiery gaze, his burning touch, his smoldering kisses. Memories that provoke a visceral reaction in my traitorous body: an intense craving that only he can fulfill.
Maybe I was wrong in assuming that we could never work out. Maybe Damon is right—where can I find someone like him again? Maybe I shouldn’t have let him go. Sometimes it is easier to let things fall apart than trying to make it work.
I know I don’t deserve him. But I can try to be better.
I can choose to make myself deserve him.
Ryder
I am impressed.
Looking around me, I can hardly recognize what was once a dim, dingy dining hall. But after the renovation, it has transformed into a fresh, inviting place for dining and socializing. The floors have been re-linoed, the walls have received a lively lick of paint, and the old tables and chairs have been replaced by colorful furniture in a variety of shapes. A stainless steel serving counter encloses the enlarged kitchen that is fitted out with professional appliances. A self-serve salad bar and a couple of flatscreen TVs on the wall complete the renewed soup kitchen’s dining hall.
My hard work of the past three months has paid off. After leaving the hospital, I felt devastated and heartbroken all over again. But instead of turning to booze, I threw myself into work. I decided to get personally involved in my philanthropic projects. Where I used to set a charity budget and got my staff to allocate the funds, I now research the projects myself and meet the people involved.
My philanthropic efforts focus on homelessness, an issue that is close to my heart due to my past. It was hard at first. Engaging with the homeless first-hand evoked painful memories, especially when confronted with families forced to live on the streets.
The other day I met Peter, a former truck driver who lost his job during the financial crisis and who spent the little savings he had to pay for his wife’s medical bills. Unable to meet the mortgage payments, their little apartment in Queens was repossessed while he and his two three-year-old twins were in the hospital to visit his wife, who was dying from breast cancer. Life on the street has been tough for him and his kids, barely surviving by moving from shelter to shelter and eating in the soup kitchens.
I almost shed a tear when he told me his story. It brought home how important the work is that I am doing. Families like Peter’s deserve to get a new lease on life by moving into the new development, a project that occupies most of my time. But with all permissions cleared and strong support from the mayoral office, it is well under way, slated to be finished at the end of the year. In the mean time, I have been helping Peter, Jimmy and his mom, and other families to find temporary accommodation.
The soup kitchens have also attracted my attention, and I am overseeing the renovation and upgrade of the most dilapidated ones, including the one that Elle used to volunteer at. I’ve made sure that more people can be accommodated to enjoy the tasty and nutritious meals devised by chefs and prepared by volunteers. Contributions by businesses and wealthy individuals pay for the cooking ingredients.
Even if it has only been a few months, the renovated soup kitchens have proven to be a success, becoming so popular that the length of the queues hasn’t shrunk much. But I am hopeful that with time, the additional soup kitchens that are being upgraded will remedy this.
Before I got personally involved in all these projects, I’d never anticipate the effect it would have on me. Not only does it give me a thrill to help design the renewed dining areas, but to see the joy on people’s faces when they see them for the first time is immensely satisfying.
It may not be much, but it gives me just that little solace I need to ease my excruciating heartbreak, which only worsened when Elle rejected all my offers of help, including the daily delivery of lilies and freshly-cooked food.
I’ve tried to get her the best medical specialists and physiotherapists to support her recovery. Yet she has refused to see them, blocked me from paying her hospital bills, and even sent me a check to repay me the rent money. It’s clear she wants nothing to do with me.
Still, I can’t help but worry about her. How can she pay me back as well as afford her medical care? Even though I know I shouldn’t, I couldn’t resist getting my PI to keep an eye on her. Thankfully I’ve had enough restraint to ask him not to give me any detailed information about her life, only to report serious problems she is facing. I keep telling myself I’m not really spying on her; I’m just making sure she’s okay.
“Mr De Luca, how wonderful to see you again.”
Kate, the manager of the soup kitchen and the adjoining shelter, strides up to me, her brown curls bouncing with each step. Shaking my hand, she sits down next to me.
“Thank you for coming at such short notice.”
“Please call me Ryder. And it is great to be here. This place looks absolutely fantastic.”
“Yes, it is, all thanks to you. We’ve been able to feed at least a quarter more people after the remodeling. And everyone loves the new menu. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“No problem. I’m happy to see it’s all worked out.”
Kate nods. “This year looks promising for the homeless, especially with the support we’re getting from the new mayor. And all your projects are going to be a tremendous help.”
“There is still so much to be done. Especially when it comes to homeless families.”
“Yes, that’s why I asked you to meet me today. I’d like to ask you for a favor. A friend of mine has just started a new initiative to help homeless kids. It’s an app called Lighthouse City.”
“I’ve heard people talking about it. What is it, exactly?”
“Through the app, you can access a database of homeless shelters in the city, to check where places will be available and booking them for the night.”
“It sounds interesting.”
“It’s going to be a great help. With this app, the shelters will be able to become more efficient and offer many more kids a roof over their heads for the night. Anyway, my friend needs more investors and that’s why I thought of you. She’ll be here soon to talk to you about it. Is that okay with you?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Have a look and see what you think.”
Kate hands me an electronic tablet before she disappears into the kitchen. She soon returns with a cup of coffee and a small plate of cookies, but I am already engrossed in the Lighthouse City web app, which is subtitled “A Beacon for Homeless City Kids”.
I discover that with a few clicks, kids can find the places that are available at the various homeless shelters in the database. Once they find a place to stay, they can request transport through the website to get them there, for free. At the moment the database only includes temporary shelters, but in the future it will also add permanent housing, matching the kids’ profiles with the most suitable places.
As I keep reading about the app, sparks of excitement enter my veins. It’s a great initiative that will make a difference in the lives of a lot of homeless kids. I wonder how I could get involved, not just by throwing money at it, but also by actively contributing ideas. I am already thinking how it could be expanded to include adults and families, and how we can use the individual profiles to provide essentials like food, clothing and toiletries.
Absentmindedly sipping my lukewarm coffee, I take a cookie off the plate and put it in my mouth. To my surprise, it tastes delicious. It reminds me of Elle’s almond cookies—they taste vaguely similar. I shake my head. When will I ever stop thinking of her?
I direct my attention back to the tablet, opening up the “About” page. I am curious how this project has come about. Apparently, Kate’s friend came up with the idea for the app a while ago while doing volunteer work for the city’s homeless shelters. A recent financial windfall has given her the means to turn her dreams into reality. Every day, more and more shelters are signing up for the app, and the first group of kids who have used it are enthusiastic. I am amazed at how much she has accomplished in such a short time.
At the bottom of the page is a dedication.
This project could not have been realized without the inspiration of a very special person.
He taught me that life is about the choices you make, and that we have the power of turning the negative into positive.
This charity is dedicated to you. You will always have a special place in my heart.
For some inexplicable reason, this sends a shiver up my spine. I completely agree with making choices in life; I couldn’t have said it better myself. A memory emerges, of Elle and I sitting on a rock near the lighthouse, talking about exactly this. And then it hits me: I have a choice to make, too.
No matter how much work I have been burying myself in the last three months, I can’t deny I have missed Elle. God, how I’ve missed her—it has been hell without her. She has made it abundantly clear she doesn’t ever want to see me again, but somehow I have to reach out to her and try to make it up between us.
When she broke up with me, I didn’t make a lot of objections; in fact, hardly any. I simply walked away, telling myself I was respecting her wishes. But in reality, wasn’t it easier for me to leave instead of opening myself up to her, instead of telling her how I really felt… instead of making a commitment? I realize now that I shouldn’t have let the love of my life slip away without a fight. I just hope it isn’t already too late.
A loud click tells me a door is opening behind me, and as soon as it does, Kate’s laughter reverberates through the dining hall.
“Ryder, I’d like you to meet my friend. The maker of the Lighthouse City app.”
Smiling, I stand up and turn around, but my heart stops beating when I see who is walking through the door.
Elle
Ryder looks as perfect as I remember him.
I am rooted to the spot, unable to say a word. My gaze zeroes in on him like a magnet, taking in his well-worn jeans and black leather jacket, and remembering the velvety feel against my skin. The charcoal gray shirt under his jacket is similar to the one he was wearing after our race at his country estate. Imagining the hard, defined muscles underneath makes a shiver travel up my spine.
How I’ve missed gliding my hands across the stubble of his defined jaw and through his mussed up hair. How I’ve missed pulling him against me for a fiery kiss. Letting out a small sigh, I force myself to look away from his full, soft lips.
Mistake.
Because instead, his eyes draw me in. His dark, dark gaze grips mine with such force that I’m hurtled into another dimension where time does not exist; a place we’ve been before, where there is simply the two of us, connected through our gaze.
It is only when I feel Kate squeezing my arm, whispering, “Good luck,” that I crash back to earth.
Ryder steps towards me, one long stride at a time, and my legs start trembling. If not for my crutches, I would have crumpled to the floor at his feet. I am holding on so tight, my arms feel painfully tense. I don’t know if this was such a great idea after all.
“Hey,” he says with a half-grin, his dark eyes raking me from top to bottom and finally settling on mine. “You look great.”
To my relief, his low, gravelly voice is devoid of any pity, but expresses a longing that matches the glint in his eyes. Dragging his hand through his silky hair, Ryder closes in on me until I am surrounded by his body heat and his familiar spicy cologne. My heart starts hammering, and the yearning I’ve tried to suppress in the past three months blossoms in my chest. All I can think about is how I’ve missed his lips on mine, his body pressed to mine.
As if he has read my thoughts, he says, “Missed me, beautiful?”
I manage a small nod while he bends over and whispers in my ear, “Me, too.”
I inhale his masculine scent—the scent that is all him—and a shudder goes through my body. I have forgotten the effect he has on me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, looking down at the floor.
His finger slips under my chin, lifting it up. “It should be me saying sorry.”
I shake my head. “No, I should have trusted you. You’ve been nothing but good to me. I guess it was just easier to push you away than trying to work it out.”
“Well, I shouldn’t have been at that race. And I shouldn’t have left you. But I’m here now, and I’m not about to leave.”
The sultry smile that plays around his lips sends a flutter to my stomach.
“Shall we sit?” He motions to the table where he was sitting before.
“Okay.”
I hop forward on my crutches with Ryder right beside me. He pulls out a chair and takes the crutches from me while I sit down. I can’t help but wince a little. Doctors have been telling me I’m healing exceptionally fast for the injuries I’ve sustained, but painkillers and meditation sessions only alleviate so much of the pain. Sheer determination has helped me through it in my daily physiotherapy sessions, which have been instrumental in my quick recovery. But I’d have to admit, grudgingly, that my mother has played a part in it, too.