Chapter 3
Ryder Freaking Vaughn
Mackinac Island, One Month Later
Tessa
When the bell over the door jingled, I didn't even look up. I couldn't. There were too many baked goods needing bagging, too many tourists stuck waiting, and – this was the biggie – too few hands to keep the caffeine and carbs flowing like they should.
So…how many hands were available?
Two.
Unfortunately, they both belonged to me – the second-slowest barista on Main Street.
And the first slowest? Yeah, that would be my boss.
He was slow on purpose. But me? I was just a newb – overwhelmed, undertrained, and still off Evan Carver's radar, that is, assuming my luck held.
Already, it had been holding for a month. And with every passing day, I spent a little less time expecting trouble from Chicago.
The thought had barely crossed my mind when I looked up and felt the blood drain from my face. Oh, God. Was that...?
A muffin slipped from my hand, bounced off the counter, and hit the floor. I barely noticed. All I saw was him, one of the biggest names in Chicago real estate.
Ryder Freaking Vaughn.
The guy was unmistakable – even here on Mackinac Island, where cars were banned, bicycles ruled the road, and deliveries came by horse-drawn carts. In a flash, I took him in – tall, blond, and sun-kissed, like he belonged somewhere on a pedestal.
The customer in front of me – an older man in a loud shirt – leaned over the counter and peered down at the muffin. "You're gonna get me a new one, aren't ya?"
I blinked. "Sorry, what?"
He frowned. "I don't want no floor muffin."
His words shook me out of my stupor. "Of course. Sorry." I summoned up a smile. "I wouldn't expect you to eat that."
He gave the muffin another glance. "Not at that price."
A nervous laugh escaped my lips. "Not for any price. I mean, it's obviously ruined."
His frown deepened. "You're not gonna throw it out, are ya?"
I was nearly too rattled to think. "Well, I'm not gonna serve it." I tried for a joke. "Or eat it myself."
The guy didn't laugh. "So you're gonna do what? Toss it in the trash?"
"Of course."
His tone grew accusing. "That's a little wasteful, don't you think?"
The woman behind him gave a loud, aggravated sigh, like she was two seconds away from shoving him aside to get her fix. And behind her, a couple of teenage girls rolled their eyes, like they were already composing scathing reviews, starring me – the dropper of muffins and destroyer of worlds.
To the guy, I said, "Wasteful?"
My heart was hammering, but not because of the muffin. No. It was because suddenly the trouble I'd left in Chicago was feeling way too close.
I snuck another glance down the line, where Ryder Vaughn was talking to the guy next to him – a friend from the looks of it.
The friend was brown-haired and brooding, dripping with the kind of wealth his rumpled clothes couldn't quite hide. Rich or not, he looked nearly wrecked, with a shadowed jawline and eyes narrowed against the light.
Hungover, clearly.
Hot, unfortunately.
But not my type. Thank God.
Ryder Vaughn was bad enough. He might've been my type – if he weren't out of my league, a magnet for stares, and minutes away from blowing my cover – that is, assuming he recognized me at all.
We moved in very different circles, but then again, I had made a spectacle of myself.
In front of me, the older guy said, "Tell ya what. Throw it in a separate bag, and I'll take it off your hands."
I hesitated. "You mean…the floor muffin?"
"Sure, why not?"
My stomach roiled, and I spoke without thinking. "So you're gonna eat it?"
Behind him, the woman muttered, "Oh, for muffin's sake."
At the counter, the guy drew back like he'd been slapped. "Is that a joke?"
I barely heard him. My gaze had already drifted back to Ryder Vaughn. "Uh…I don't know. Is it?"
"If it is, it's not funny." The guy was bristling now. "Just who do you think I am?"
I didn't know who he was, but I knew plenty about Ryder Vaughn. He ran in the same lofty circles as that monster Evan Carver. Probably they were friends or squash partners or heck, went to the same fancy prep school back in the day.
This wasn't good.
I gave a hard swallow and then another.
Muffin Man said, "Well?"
I could hardly think past the pounding in my chest. "Well what?" On auto-pilot, I reached for a new muffin and began shoving it into a bag.
Muffin Man demanded, "Do you think I eat off the floor?"
I'd made a ton of stupid decisions lately, but I wasn't so far gone that I'd answer that question. So instead, I mumbled, "I'm really sorry."
This was no lie. I was sorry. I shouldn't have dropped the muffin. I shouldn't have tried to joke with him. And most of all, I shouldn't have thought I could hide in a tourist hot-spot that was only eight hours from Chicago – seven by car, plus an hour by ferry.
A chill skittered down my spine. Forget cars and ferries. By jet, the distance was significantly less. Less than one hour. Holy hell.
On the upside, there were at least a dozen customers separating me from Ryder Vaughn. Of course, ten dozen would've been better.
Muffin Man continued to glare, even as I handed him the pastry bag with a brand new muffin.
He stiffly said, "I do have a dog, you know."
Absently, I replied, "Oh…that's nice."
Behind him, the woman muttered, "Yeah, and I've got three cats, but you don't see me holding up the line."
Muffin Man didn't even turn to look. Maybe he was hard of hearing. Or maybe he was just too focused on me, because he was still giving me the stink-eye, as if I'd just insulted his dog.
When I said nothing more, he gave a disgruntled sigh. "So I want it for him, not me. A little treat, you know? And the floor don't bother him none."
I blanked for just a moment before my brain finally caught up. "Oh. Of course. Sure…" And with that, I ducked down, plucked up the floor muffin, and shoved it into a pastry bag.
As I handed it over, a woman halfway down the line stared in open disgust. Looking ready to barf, she said, "That's so gross."
Was it? Not the way I saw it – unless she hadn't caught the part about it being for the dog. Looking to put her mind at ease, I called out, "It's not for him. I mean…it's not like we sell food off the floor."
A middle-aged couple standing directly behind her shared a worried look and then broke for the exit, as if I'd just announced that floor muffins were today's special.
But Ryder Vaughn? He stayed put, as if the whole muffin drama had gone completely unnoticed. He was still talking to his friend, who, now that I noticed, had a big, black duffle bag slung over his shoulder, like he was fresh off the ferry.
As Muffin Man paid for his pastry – plus one black coffee, already poured – I sucked in a deep, calming breath.
Mackinac Island attracted all kinds of people, including some pretty famous names who had private getaways within biking distance of this same exact shop. So, was it really so strange that Ryder Vaughn would come here, too?
Maybe he was here on vacation.
Or to scout out some property.
Or hey, he could be on a sugar-bender. I mean, Elvis once took his private jet to buy peanut-butter-and-bacon sandwiches, so was it really out of the question that Ryder Vaughn would pop onto the island for some of its world-famous fudge?
As for myself, it was time to get a grip. It's not like he and I had ever met. Sure, I'd seen him from afar a time or two, but compared to him, I was background noise.
But then, just as I started to relax, a new thought made my heart hammer in ways that had nothing to do with his lazy grin or sparkling blue eyes.
What if…he was here for me?
Ridiculous? Probably.
Paranoid? Definitely.
But try telling that to my stomach, which was staging a revolt. If Evan Carver had anything to do with this, I was in serious trouble – the kind that should send me swimming for the mainland.
But I held my ground, making a decent Americano for the disgruntled cat-lady followed by two custom mochas for the eye-rolling teenagers.
The mochas, unfortunately, were still a challenge.
So of course, I screwed them up at the very end by spraying a crooked mountain of whipped cream onto the wrong drink, which meant I had to remake one of them from scratch.
But I wasn't thinking of mochas. Had Evan – that psycho in a suit – sent a couple of hotshot friends to ferret me out?
The thought was so nauseating I almost bolted out the back, leaving the customers waiting for nothing. If the crowd was lucky, I'd pass my useless boss along the way and tell him that his break was over unless he wanted a java-junkie riot on his hands.
When I finished with the teenagers, I turned away and squeezed my eyes shut for a long, unsteady moment. Get a grip, Tessa, will you?
Seriously. There was no need to bolt.
Not yet, anyway.
Put on your barista face, and play it cool. You're just a basic blonde with no nametag and a burnt thumb.
With a smile plastered in place, I turned back and served the next customer – and the one after that – making drinks, pouring coffee, and filling pastry orders like nobody's business.
Danger aside, I could've really used some help – and not only for my own sake. The customers were waiting for way too long, making me feel guilty that I wasn't faster. Or better. I mean, it's not like I'd meant to scald my thumb – or hand that almond scone to the bagel guy.
And don't get me started on the floor muffin.
Was it any wonder the customers were cranky?
The line at the counter had only grown, thanks to the arrival of another ferry, dumping yet another wave of humanity onto Main Street and straight into the coffee shop.
Sure, I didn't actually see the ferry, but after a month on the island, I knew the patterns – just like I knew that if my boss didn't miraculously join me, I would be forced to wait on the Chicago duo all by myself.
Already, the two men were moving dangerously close to the counter, where we'd meet face-to-face. I wiped my hands on my apron, as if I could dry the sweat that just kept coming.
I kept watching them in my side-eye as I tried to tamp down espresso without shaking like a leaf.
Ryder Vaughn was talking.
Mister Hangover was enduring.
And me? I was trying not to lose my breakfast – or my nerve – as Ryder's laugh cut through the crowd like he already knew the joke was on me.
And then, all too soon, they were right there, directly in front of me, leaving me no choice but to play it cool and hope for the best.
I could do this.
And if not, well…there was always the back door.