She saw him in the side view mirror, walking up to her car. Her view was of his midsection, and she had the wild thought that he looked like he’d gained a little weight. Reconciliation with Gwen had given handsome Ryan Spangler a gut.
He tapped on her window and motioned impatiently for her to roll it down. Libby didn’t roll the window down—she climbed over the console and popped out the passenger side, putting her little car between them—just in case—and looked at her ex-lover across the hood of her car. Damn it, why did she feel that old fluttering in her belly? It was infuriating—Ryan Spangler did not deserve even the slightest bit of fluttering.
He was frowning at her, his dark brown eyes full of irritation. He had a small scar across one brow, the result of a couch jump he didn’t execute well when he was twelve, that turned red when he was angry. How many times had she touched that scar?
Ryan sighed. “What the hell was that, Libby?” he demanded. “Are you stalking me now?”
“What? No!” she said, as if that were preposterous instead of perhaps a bit true. “Get over yourself, Ryan.”
“What if Gwen had seen you? Or the kids?” He groaned, removed his hat, and ran his palm over the crown of his blond hair. “Look, I’m really trying to do this right.”
“Do what right?”
He looked at her, his gaze sliding over her like it used to. “Libby, I’m sorry,” he said, and put his hand to his chest. “I am really sorry.”
Her heart skipped; it was the grocery store parking lot all over again. It was an apology, a wistful look. But the first time, she’d run from it, concerned about the restraining order, afraid that it was really more rejection wrapped up in a pretty apology.
But there was something about Ryan’s expression that made her step around the back of the car and move toward him, her eyes locked on his. She heard a car drive up behind her, but ignored it. “What are you trying to say, Ryan?” Say it. Say you are a sleaze and you wronged me and I deserve so much better than you.
“What am I saying? That I am sorry about everything.” His gaze drifted to a point over her shoulder. “Glad you’re here, Sam.”
Libby’s heart plummeted. She risked a look behind her; Sam was standing there, the door to his patrol truck still open. He arched a brow, silently questioning her.
Libby despised him in that moment—his timing was awful.
“Ryan?” Sam said, and his gaze shifted to Ryan. “Is everything okay here?” He asked it casually, strolling up to them as if they had all met here to have a drink. But he had one hand on the gun he wore on his belt. His hat, Libby noticed, was turned around, so that the bill was in back, and his hair was brushed back beneath it. He was wearing a departmental polo shirt tucked into jeans, the sun glinting off the badge he’d clipped to his pocket.
Ryan sighed wearily. “She’s stalking my house,” he said. He didn’t sound particularly angry, just matter of fact. His eyes were soft, almost sad, and Libby realized the breath she was holding was actually a sigh of longing. There was something about his eyes that had always gotten to her. Good God, what was wrong with her? He, of all people, didn’t deserve the slightest bit of longing from her. What he deserved was a good kick in the ass.
“That true, Libby?” Sam asked.
“No! I wasn’t stalking you, Ryan,” she said, unwilling to look at Sam, honestly uncertain if what she had done constituted stalking. Was driving by his house stalking? Or did stalking begin the moment she pulled over? At that moment, however, her heart was beating too fast for her to think clearly. “I was passing through. It’s a shortcut, you know that.”
Ryan gave her a look that said he knew the opposite was true.
Sam shifted to stand before her, which forced her to look at him. His hazel eyes, she noticed, did not look happy.
“You’re supposed to stay three hundred yards away from me, Libby. We just had this reminder two days ago,” Ryan said.
“I wasn’t within three hundred yards of you two days ago,” she pointed out. “And I can drive on any road I want to.”
“But can she stop and stare at my house?” Ryan asked Sam.
“Ryan, for heaven’s sake!” Libby protested. “I was driving by. Cutting through!”
His brown eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”
She wasn’t going to win, and Libby was on the verge of admitting it, her thoughts whirling around why she had driven by his house—surmising that wanting to see Ryan grovel would probably not fly with anyone here—when Sam said, “I think this time, it’s true.”
What did he just say? Libby jerked her gaze to Sam.
“She’d agreed to meet me here and she was probably running late.”
“Meet you?” Ryan asked. “Why?”
Libby also wanted to hear that answer.