Chapter 31
Thirty-one
Ginny
By the time we pull into the parking lot of the go-kart track, I’ve officially stopped trying to figure out Ryker Paradise.
He’s a pediatrician who knows the exact number of marshmallows it takes to cheer up a five-year-old and also the guy who insists we handle our emotional damage with gasoline and speed.
I follow him toward the rental counter, trying to control the butterflies in my stomach.
“Admit it,” he says, handing me the forms. “You’re terrified.”
I arch a brow. “Of what? Embarrassing you in public?”
His grin is infuriating and adorable. “Of losing to a Paradise.”
I snort. “Please. You drive a luxury SUV with backup sensors and a pediatric car-seat checklist.”
He lowers his voice as he signs the waiver. “Sexy, right?”
“Deeply,” I deadpan, though the truth is—God help me—it actually kind of is.
They assign us helmets and cart numbers. I pull mine on and glance over in time to see Ryker adjusting the strap beneath his jaw. He catches me staring and smirks.
“Try to keep up, Dempsey.”
“In your dreams, Paradise.”
When the first race begins, I gun it off the line and hit the corner like it owes me money. Ryker’s fast—I’ll give him that—but he underestimates my inner agent of mayhem, the part of me that has absolutely no fear when it comes to tight turns and ridiculous risks.
By the third lap, he’s a full cart-length ahead, and I catch his side-eye as I zip past him at the final straightaway.
When the checkered flag drops, I throw my hands in the air.
“Eat my dust!” I crow as we pull into the pit.
He pulls up beside me, pulling off his helmet. “Okay, I might have underestimated your need for vengeance.”
I wink. “Consider yourself warned.”
We’re forced off the track between races so they can refuel and reset, which means we’ve got about twenty minutes to kill.
Ryker finds the little arcade tucked in the corner of the building and practically lights up. “No way. They’ve got Pac-Man.”
I raise a brow. “Are you about to tell me you’re some sort of vintage gaming god?”
He shrugs. “Only one way to find out.”
We slide a few coins into the machine, and he insists I go first.
“I’m terrible at this,” I warn.
He crosses his arms, a smug little half-smile on his face. “Prove it.”
I smack the start button and guide Pac-Man around the maze, dodging ghosts, grabbing pellets. I do okay until I corner myself near Blinky and die.
“Impressive,” he notes. “Truly elite strategy.”
I elbow him. “Shut up.”
He takes the controls and immediately wipes the floor with my score, eating every ghost in sight like it’s his job. At the end of the level, he’s still alive, and I’m staring at the screen in disbelief.
“You’ve done this before.” I shouldn’t be smiling this much, not when my life is in shambles. But I can still kick his ass at go-karts, so maybe not everything is so bad.
“Gamer reflexes,” he says, cocky as hell.
“Is this your seduction strategy?” I ask. “Dominate me in retro games until I fall into your arms?”
He shrugs, still steering Pac-Man through the maze. “It’s working, isn’t it?”
“Not even a little.”
He finally dies just shy of the second level’s final round and steps back like he just won Olympic gold. “Your turn,” he says. “Let’s see if you can last longer than a sneeze.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re adorable when you’re losing.”
I try again. And again. Each time, I barely beat my last score, and each time, he’s right there with a smart comment, laughing under his breath, too close, too warm. He brushes his arm against mine like he’s not slowly rewiring my entire nervous system.
When I finally manage to outscore him—by three points—I throw my arms in the air. “Victory!”
He snorts. “That was luck.”
“I don’t care. A win is a win.”
He moves in close, eyes gleaming. “Want your prize?”
“What kind of prize?”
He lifts a single brow, then dips his head like he might kiss me—just for a second—but he stops short, teasing. “Bragging rights. What were you thinking?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re the worst.”
We walk out of the arcade and back to the track.
The second race begins, and it’s soon clear Ryker has learned something. He doesn’t make the same mistakes twice. This time he takes the inside track, blocks my best lines, and beats me by a solid two seconds. I give him a dramatic slow clap as we step out of our carts.
“I see the man has a competitive streak.”
He slings his arm around my shoulder. “That wasn’t competition. That was revenge.”
I shake my head. “You’re terrible.”
He shrugs. “You started it.”
We take another break and go to the café, which smells like fryer grease and nacho cheese, but the heat is welcome after the chill of the track. Ryker steers me to a corner booth and insists I sit.
“I’ll get us something,” he says, walking backwards toward the counter. “Don’t go falling in love with me while I’m gone.”
I flash him a look. “Try harder.”
He grins and turns, leaving me shaking my head. I sink into the booth, pulling my vest tighter around me. I’m not cold exactly, just…raw. It’s easier to laugh than feel too much.
A few minutes later, Ryker returns with two frosty drinks and a wooden tray loaded with sliders, onion rings, soft pretzel bites, and something that looks suspiciously like deep-fried pickles.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d want,” he says, setting everything down. “So I ordered everything they had that wasn’t glowing or still frozen.”
I raise a brow. “Hoping to impress me?”
He hands me a drink, eyes twinkling. “I figured if I couldn’t win your heart on the track, I’d buy it with bar food.”
I take a sip. “Good strategy.”
He settles across from me, gaze warm. “You eat first. I’ll just sit here and nervously hope you like something.”
I reach for a slider. “I’m not picky,” I say casually. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be seen with you.”
He lets out a soft laugh, leaning back like he’s been hit and is somehow enjoying it. “Low blow.”
“You love it.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
We eat for a few minutes. He lets me steal the best onion ring without complaint, which is either love or foolishness.
I glance up. “I start the consortium job on Monday.”
“That’s great.”
“It’s only part time,” I say, voice quieter.
“Enough to stay afloat, maybe. But not enough to get a real place. I’ll need something else—maybe freelance marketing or part-time gigs—so I can rent a decent apartment.
I haven’t been the best about saving. I put all my money into stones and beads for my jewelry business. ”
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and I feel it before he even opens his mouth.
Don’t say it. I pray silently. Please, God, don’t let him say it.
But he just nods. Thoughtful. Quiet. And doesn’t say a word.
I release my breath and pop a pretzel bite into my mouth.
He studies me for a second longer, then grins. “You’re ridiculously bad at pretending you don’t think I’m about to suggest you move in.”
I almost choke. “I am not!”
“You were seconds away from climbing out that window.”
“I was preparing a graceful deflection.”
“I’m glad I saved you from it.”
I smirk, trying to hide the rush of relief. “Don’t get any ideas, Paradise.”
He raises his drink. “No promises.”
We clink glasses.
“You’re proud of yourself right now, aren’t you?”
“Deeply,” he says, biting into a fried pickle with zero shame. “This is peak boyfriend energy.”
Boyfriend. The word clangs around my insides, too heavy and too tempting. I pretend it doesn’t rattle me. I raise a brow. “Boyfriend?”
He winks. “Cart-racing partner. Same difference.”
I shake my head but don’t argue. I’m too busy pretending my heart didn’t just skip a beat.
I nibble a fry while Ryker polishes off the last of the onion rings.
“Can I tell you something?” he says, voice low, almost like he’s not sure if he should say it.
I set my fry down. “Of course.”
He hesitates. “I used to think love had to be perfect to be real. My parents made it look easy. I thought if things got messy or hard or someone disappointed you, that meant it wasn’t the right kind of love or they weren’t the right person.
So I kept waiting for something flawless, something easy.
” He exhales. “But that’s not love. That’s a fantasy.
Real love…it has cracks. Blemishes. People screw up, they say the wrong thing, they get scared.
And you love them anyway. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s real. ”
I blink hard, trying to keep the emotion from spilling over. “You really believe that?”
His gaze holds mine. “Yeah. I do.”
I swallow hard. “Was that why you don’t do relationships?”
He considers that. “I think I stopped trying for anything that felt permanent. It just seemed safer.”
My throat tightens. “Good. Because I’m all flaws. I come with scars and baggage, and I’ve been kicked out of my own damn family.”
He reaches across the table, his fingers curling around mine. “I’ll take all of it. Every flaw. Every scar. You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to be you.” He looks me in the eyes. “I know we can do this.”
I feel myself blushing. “You’re not easy to walk away from,” I tell him.
That makes him smile.
We sit like that a moment longer, fingers tangled across a table scattered with half-eaten fried snacks. And in the quiet, something shifts. Not loud. Not obvious. Just a small, steady opening, like maybe we’re both starting to realize that we could last, even when it’s messy.
We leave before the third race. We have other places to go.