Wild Embrace (Wilder Irish #11) - Mari Carr Page 0,3

to. She’d been offering to read the book to them for the better part of a year, but both boys insisted Ryder was reading it to them. Or at least, he had been before his wife died. Darcy couldn’t help but notice every time she babysat that the bookmark never moved.

Tonight, Clint was the one to pull it out, and she knew he’d given up hope that his dad would get back to it.

“Vince claims you’re the best when it comes to doing Hagrid’s voice.” Then, she added, “Bloody ’ell, ’arry.”

Ryder shook his head, one corner of his mouth quirking up in amusement. “I think that’s an Australian accent.”

She sighed. “Damn. That’s what Vince said too. So, um…I thought you were working late tonight.”

When he’d called this morning to see if she was available to stay with his son, Clint, and stepson, Vince, he had mentioned something about a big project at work and his plans to “burn the midnight oil.”

“Yeah. I was. Made it all the way to six o’clock before that plan fell through.” His words were slightly slurred.

“Fell through?”

“Couldn’t concentrate.”

This was hands down the longest conversation she’d ever had with Ryder. And she was about ninety-nine percent sure he wouldn’t remember it tomorrow. His eyes were clouded, unfocused, and while he was talking—mumbling—he wasn’t looking at her, but instead at some random spot on the wall over her left shoulder.

Part of her thought she should probably just leave, but she could tell he was upset, and that bothered her. A lot. Darcy hated it when people were sad, and Ryder Hagen had been sad since the day she’d met him.

Granted, that first meeting had taken place just a few days after his wife, Denise, had been killed in a car accident. He’d spent the last year grieving.

She looked toward the front entrance, then she perched on the edge of the couch.

“Why couldn’t you concentrate?” she asked quietly.

“It’s Denise’s birthday.”

“Oh.”

Denise and Ryder had been married for six years, buying this house and raising Vince and Clint together. Darcy couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain and loneliness Ryder must feel without her.

Nowadays, Ryder shared the place with Leo, their living situation what Darcy considered the most incredible thing two dads had ever done for their kids.

Leo was Vince’s dad, so when Denise died, he got full custody of his son. Rather than separate the boys after their mother’s death, Leo and Ryder had decided to become roommates to allow the brothers to remain together. They’d already lost their mother, and the men didn’t think it was right to also rob the boys of each other.

When her cousin Yvonne, who was good friends with Leo, told her what the men were doing, Darcy vowed she would help them however she could. She wanted this unintentional but wonderful family of all males to succeed. Yvonne had felt the same way, so now they were both pretty regular visitors to the house. Darcy, who was in her last year of college, babysat, while Yvonne—the greatest cook on the planet after Darcy’s mom, Riley—brought them dinner a couple times a month.

Ryder leaned his head back against the recliner, his gaze traveling toward the ceiling as he chuckled miserably. “Fucking remembered it this year.”

Darcy bit her lower lip, uncertain how to respond. She’d never heard Ryder curse. So between him dropping the F bomb and getting bombed, she was floundering a bit.

“I’m sorry,” she said, simply because she didn’t know what else to say.

“Always forgot it,” he said to the ceiling. “Every fucking year. Woke up this morning and it was the first thing I thought of. She would have been twenty-nine.”

Darcy swallowed heavily as a wave of sadness washed through her. She couldn’t imagine dying so young, and as she considered the boys sleeping soundly down the hall, she felt incredible sorrow for the entire family. For the boys growing up without a mother, the husband without a wife, and for Denise as well. She was going to miss so much of her children’s lives—from birthdays, to Christmases, to graduations, and weddings. It just wasn’t fair.

“Ryder—” she started, but he was still muttering, and she was sure he hadn’t even heard her speak.

“Every year. Same fight.”

She considered his inebriated state and hoped he’d at least spent the evening drowning his sorrows with a friend. No one this sad should be alone.

“Where did you go tonight?” she asked, trying to distract him from the undeniable guilt he was suffering.

“Bar near work.”

“Anyone go with