Chapter Nineteen
I follow Ryan Mare to an American restaurant in the East Thirties, careful to stay ten steps behind him, in constant fear of being caught.
The entire walk, he speaks quickly into a wireless earpiece, punctuating his words with cackles and exclamations of “My man!” When we reach the door of the eatery, he checks the time on his phone.
Satisfied with what he sees, he strolls in and waves to the hostess, a robust woman in her thirties whom he calls sweetheart.
She blushes as he takes a seat at the bar and orders his what he calls his usual: a pint of beer and a Caesar salad with extra chicken, no anchovies.
A few minutes later, I take a deep breath and enter the restaurant after him.
The hostess greets me, color still staining her cheeks. “Table for one?” she asks, peering behind me.
I shake my head. “Any chance I can grab a seat at the bar?”
She hands me a menu, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.” I wink at her. “I’ll need it.”
But despite my false air of confidence, my palms are sweating.
Breathe, Joonie.
You’ve got this.
But holy shit.
I’m about to meet Ryan Mare.
My Ryke.
This is the moment. The one we might someday tell our children about.
I slide onto a stool next to him, smiling at the bartender in an attempt to mask my discomfort. He asks me if I’d like a drink, and I open my mouth to request a Shirley Temple, but instead I hear myself say the word Chardonnay. I guess my subconscious needs a little bit of liquid courage?
And besides, Ryan Mare is drinking at noon on a random weekday. Why the hell can’t I?
The bartender pours my wine while studying me, but my eyes are glued to Ryan Mare’s profile. The movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows down his IPA, the gold pendant that hangs from a delicate chain around his neck, the flex of his jaw as he checks his phone.
All so familiar, yet so novel.
Ryke.
I’m working up the nerve to say something to him when the waitress interrupts. “What do you want?” she asks, her tone a bit clipped.
“Um.”
To fall in love.
To meet my soul mate.
To know that I’m worthy of a happy ending.
“Tuna club, please?”
“You got it.”
She briefly gawks at Ryan Mare before scurrying off into the kitchen.
I turn my attention back to Ryan. If I was writing our meet-cute, how would I want it to go? Maybe I should accidentally knock over his glass (Silly me, I’m so clumsy!), apologize profusely, then offer to buy him another round.
Or maybe I should pretend to get a distressing phone call, burst into tears, and let him comfort me, wrapping one strong, muscled arm around my shoulders.
And when I blink up at him through wet lashes and we lock eyes for the first time, I’ll allow my breath to stutter.
Later, I’ll tell Tey and Ollie that he stole it away.
He could reach over and steal a fry from my plate when I’m not looking.
I could “accidentally” burp loudly and pretend to be embarrassed about it.
My phone could die, forcing me to ask to borrow his charger.
I shake my head. Why am I allowing myself to play out scenario after scenario in my head instead of just experiencing life firsthand?
Why am I like this, writing fanfic about myself in my mind instead of leaping off the page and making something happen?
“If you keep your mouth open like that for too long, you’re bound to trap a fly,” says a deep, throaty voice.
When I turn my head to the left, I find myself tumbling headfirst into golden headlights.
Ryke.
I immediately attempt to shut my mouth, swallowing my own tongue in the process, which sends me into a coughing fit.
“Now, now,” Ryan Mare says, patting my back. “Water or wine?”
Ryke would say, It’s your choice,I think to myself.
“It’s your choice,” Ryan Mare says.
I blink at him.
That was…eerie.
“I’ll stick with my wine, thanks,” I say, taking a big gulp to quell the oncoming hiccups. The drink tastes smooth, but it burns my throat.
Ryan Mare watches me, amusement spreading over his face. The corner of his mouth tugs upward in the exact way Evelyn G. Carter mentions more frequently than necessary.
I extend a hand. “I’m Joonie.”
He takes my hand and shakes it, firm and strong. His palm is as rough as it is in fiction.
“Ryan,” he says. “What brings a girl like you to a shitty tavern in Midtown, Joonie?”
I followed you here.
I traveled all this way to meet you.
I am hoping you’ll sweep me off my feet.
“Just grabbing lunch,” I say instead. “And what about you? Do you come here often? Do you work nearby? Are you meeting someone?”
So many questions, I think.
“So many questions,” he says.
Whoa.
Every mannerism, every movement, is exactly like Ryke’s.
It’s honestly a little creepy.
He grins, his teeth white with elongated canines. Like he could drink from my wrist.
“Yep, I come here once a week. Truth? It’s my hidden gem. Best salads in Manhattan. And yes, I work a couple of blocks away at an environmental start-up called JUS. And yes, I’m meeting someone.”
You.
“You.”
I smile back at him, but somehow, it doesn’t reach my eyes.
That line would have read great on paper. But in person, it feels a bit…lackluster?
“So, how does a pretty girl like you know about my best-kept secret?”
He does a slow scan of my body, from the curve of my waist to the swell of my breasts. When his eyes land back on my face, those golden orbs are swirling with mischief.
I wait to feel my pulse quicken.
Instead, I feel nothing.
“I’m on an adventure,” I disclose, taking another sip.
“Is that right?” He runs a hand through his dark hair, mussing it slightly so that it falls perfectly into his face. “So mysterious, little Joon. But I’ll crack you soon enough.”
Little Joon.
He might as well have called me almighty Merriah.
But…Ryan Mare has no idea who I am. He has no idea I’m an avid reader of A Tale of Salt Water & Secrets. I mean, I’ll tell him eventually.
Probably.
But this? This right here? It isn’t an act. This is just who Ryan Mare is. It’s uncanny. EGC captured him down to the very last detail.
I shiver.
“So, an environmental start-up, huh?” I break the tension with a question. Not that Ryan Mare noticed any tension. He’s shoveling forkfuls of salad into his mouth, that intense stare glued to me. “You planning on saving the world, Ryan?”
I keep my voice light, full of flirtation.
But Ryan Mare doesn’t pick up on that. Not at all.
“Absolutely,” he says earnestly, his golden eyes growing wilder.
“There’s nothing I care more about than protecting our world, this planet we’ve been gifted.
Where I come from, flooding and mudslides have ruined our land, destroying houses and tearing loved ones apart.
I was eight years old when I lived through my first hurricane, which is why I’ve decided to dedicate my life to fighting acts of environmental terrorism, one rising water level at a time. That and puppies, of course.”
He wiggles his eyebrows at me.
And I sigh.
Because Ryan Mare is saying all the right things.
He’s perfect on paper.
But in real life? I feel like he’s doing a weird Prince of Atlantia impression or something.
As Ryan Mare continues to talk about the threat of climate change and how inhumane dog breeding is essentially a multilevel marketing scheme, I allow my mind to drift. I take in the size of him—the way his forearms flex, the dimples in his cheeks.
Don’t get me wrong. He’s really fucking hot. And respectful. A real man.
But boy, can he talk.
I should probably cut him off, right? If Nico were here, he’d definitely cut him off. Make some quippy comment about disaster insurance and ask how Ryan Mare plans on single-handedly stopping West Coast flooding while sitting in a glass office building full of yuppies in Midtown Manhattan.
Nico.
Now, he always keeps me guessing. I never know what he’s going to do next. He may get under my skin and piss me off to no end sometimes—like earlier, when he called me delusional—but he always manages to surprise me.
No, Joonie.
Bad.
You’re with Ryan Mare now.
Ryan. Mare.
The real-life Ryke.
There’s no reason for you to keep thinking about Nico.
But I wonder what Nico’s doing right now.
Is he with that woman in Harlem? Did he take her out for lunch?
Is he lecturing her about 5G networks and long-term radiation or making fun of the way she holds her knife and fork?
Or did they decide to forgo lunch altogether and stay in?
Is he whispering dirty words against the small of her back, making her laugh and shudder in equal measure?
Does his back-and-forth with every girl serve as foreplay, or am I special?
Suddenly, the idea of Nico touching another woman, calling her special, is enough to send my lunch back up my esophagus.
Why?
Why am I sitting here across from the man of my dreams, someone who literally feels too good to be true, thinking about Nico?
You know why, a voice in my head says. Nico’s voice. Because this is real.
I snap out of my daydream, alarmed. Sirens blare in my head.
Do I have…real feelings for Nico?
My brother’s best friend?
The man who, until this week, I considered my enemy?
“It’s really nice to meet you, Joonie,” Ryan Mare says, oblivious to the fact that I’ve floated so far outside of my body, I’ve nearly reached Maecanea. “You know, you are really beautiful.”
“That’s a very cool necklace,” I blurt out, suddenly itchy.
He lets out one of Ryke’s signature full-chested laughs. “Why, thank you. The pendant’s an heirloom, actually. See?”
I inch closer so I can study the engraving.
Then my mouth drops open.
Because etched on the pendant?
The letters MMC.
This cannot be real life.
“What does that stand for?” I ask, unable to resist the urge to scratch my neck. My skin is on fire.
His cheeks flush with embarrassment. “It’s my last name, followed by my first name. Mare, Marrion Chad.”
I blink several times.
The universe is most definitely fucking with me.
“Your name is…it’s…M-Marrion Chad?”
He squints. “Well, yeah. Ryan is short for Marrion. Marrion Chad. I’m actually fifth in a line of Marrion Chads. Hey, are you feeling okay? You look kind of green.”
I just stare at him.
That tan skin and midnight hair to which I’ve dedicated thousands of words.
Those smile lines and full lips I’ve imagined so many times as I touched myself in the dead of night.
The gleaming light behind his eyes.
And I face a startling reality head-on.
“You know what? It was really nice meeting you, too, Ryan,” I say apologetically, leaving some of Angel’s cash on the counter and grabbing my bags. “But there’s somewhere I’ve got to be.”
And as I walk out that door and onto the sidewalk, I know one thing for certain.
Prince Ryke of Atlantia is good on paper.
But Nico?
He might just be better for me.