Chapter 9
FAYE
My heart stops for two full seconds as Ryder Evans stands in my spare bedroom staring at my deepest, darkest secret. Gaming gave me everything and then took it all away. And now my past is laid bare for the last person on earth I want knowing anything real about me.
And he’s still staring at me, waiting for an answer.
“Mmm, yeah,” I manage, my pitch too high.
“I’ve always been into gaming.” I hover in the doorway, arms wrapped around myself as if the self-hug can protect me from his scrutiny.
“I was in a nasty car accident when I was a teenager. Multiple fractures. Surgeries on my pelvis and legs. I spent several months bedridden.” I give him the part of the truth I’m ready to share.
“Video games and books were the only available distractions. They kept me sane when I couldn’t walk. ”
His gaze flickers again to the expensive setup, as if he knows I’m not saying everything. But he doesn’t call bullshit this time. Still, when his eyes snap back on me, their intensity—concern, sympathy, recognition—presses against me like a truth I’m not ready to hear.
“Shit,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
That “shit” somehow makes it better. It’s the opposite of the polite pity I’m used to when I share the story as I did a thousand times in past interviews. It’s instinctive, honest, almost protective.
“It was ages ago.” I wave him off, uncomfortable with the weight of his sympathy. “Ancient history. But the passion for gaming stuck.” I gesture at the room. “Obviously.”
He nods slowly, still watching me.
Ryder might not call bullshit this time, but I still hear him say it in my head.
This is getting too personal too fast. I need distance.
Time to retreat.
“I’ll let you do your job.” I back out of the room. “I don’t want to hover and distract you.”
I flee before he responds.
In the kitchen, I pour myself another coffee I don’t need with shaking hands. I should switch to chamomile, or water, something calming, not add more caffeine to my system. My heart is already racing from having Ryder Evans in my house, discovering my secrets.
I’m mid-sip when I realize he’s going to my bedroom next, and I have no idea what state I left it in this morning. Did I make the bed? Have I left clothes scattered everywhere?
I set the mug down so hard that coffee sloshes over the rim and sprint down the hallway. Behind me, Ryder is still working in the studio. I have maybe two minutes.
My feet slide on the hardwood as I rush into my room.
The bed is a disaster—sheets twisted, pillows askew, comforter half on the floor. Clothes are scattered across every surface. Yesterday’s bra is draped over the headboard. The chair in the corner is buried under rejected outfit options from Friday night.
I move like a Tasmanian devil. Grab the comforter, yank it up, smooth it over the sheets. Fluff the pillows. Straighten the nightstand. I collect clothes in a growing ball in my arms—jeans, sweaters, the offending bra, socks that ended up on opposite sides of the room.
In my frenzy, I kick something. My wireless speaker skitters across the floor and disappears under the bed. Whatever. I’ll rescue it later. Right now, I need to hide the literal dirty laundry.
I give the room one last sweep with my gaze, and when I can’t see any more red flags, I shuffle to the washer closet to drop everything in my arms into the basket. I sag back at the kitchen table, even more out of breath.
By the time Ryder’s footsteps sound in the hallway, I’m perched on a stool with my laptop open in front of me, the picture of a dedicated teacher working on lesson plans.
Except I’m not taking in any of the text on the screen, or adding any input.
My only functioning sense is my hearing, and I have it hyper-tuned on Ryder.
The idea of him in my bedroom sends heat coursing through me. It’s deeply unsettling. But underneath the panic, there’s a throbbing, disturbing pulse, this inexplicable prickle of anticipation.
I shouldn’t be imagining him standing beside my bed, or what he’d look like on it. But my brain has other ideas.
What would happen if I stood up right now, walked down that hallway, and joined him? If I pressed my hands against his chest and pushed him backward onto my hastily made bed?
Would he let me? Or would he grab my hips and flip me over, pressing me into the mattress with his hard body, his lean muscles pinning me down while his calloused hands—
A woman’s voice suddenly fills the cottage, breathy and dramatic: “Sarina felt the whisper of his magic again as his pants slid off.”
The audiobook I was listening to last night has resumed playing in my bedroom.
At full volume.
And of course it’s fairy smut, paused in the middle of a sex scene.
“She barely had time to register his black undershorts before they too vanished.”
Oh, fucking hell. I take off running.
“Her fantasies of undressing him paled against reality. The sculpted muscles of his thighs, the elegant taper from waist to narrow hips, the defined V leading downward to his very large—”
I skid through the threshold of my bedroom, yelling to cover the narrator’s voice finishing that sentence.
I scream. Loud, high-pitched, and mortified.
Ryder stands frozen near the air-conditioning vent. He’s holding his phone in one hand, the filter in the other, and looks like he’s been struck by lightning. His eyes are wide. His mouth parted. And a flush creeps up his neck, turning the tips of his ears red.
“What happened?” I choke out as the audiobook continues its relentless narration.
“His fingers grazed her lace-trimmed underwear. ‘These have to go.’”
“I don’t know—” Ryder starts, his voice strangled. “My phone connected to your speaker, and when I turned off the Bluetooth—”
“At his command, invisible forces tugged them away. The playfulness of his magic faded beneath the intensity of his gaze; the Lord of the High Court was watching her with unmistakable intent.”
Ryder hesitates, visibly embarrassed. “—and the, err… narration started.”
We’re staring at each other, aghast as the darn audiobook keeps going.
“She pressed against his chest until he fell back. His arms circled her waist, pulling her astride him. As her hair spilled around them, Ashren wove it around his fist, using it as a lever to bring her mouth down to his.”
The scene is playing out like the fantasy I was just daydreaming about in my kitchen. This is karma.
I groan loudly. I must’ve activated the Bluetooth link when I kicked the speaker under the bed, prompting Ryder’s phone to connect. And when he turned it off, the connection bounced back to my phone and activated the autoplay.
“Sarina bit his lower lip. ‘Sweet little fairy,’ she murmured, her voice like a melody. Ashren’s eyebrow arched in amusement. He was neither sweet nor small.”
I curse my audio app’s autoplay feature. I curse Bluetooth technology. I curse the entire concept of wireless speakers.
But mostly, I curse the fact that I can’t remember where I left my phone and can’t use it to turn this off. It could be anywhere. The couch. The kitchen counter. The bathroom. I don’t have time to search the entire cottage.
The fastest way to shut that damn speaker up is to find it and switch it off manually.
“Sorry,” I mutter, dropping to my knees.
“She shimmied down his chest, trailing bites and kisses over his skin. Ashren gasped as he understood her intention.”
I crawl under the bed.
“His body went rigid as he swore softly.”
The speaker sits just out of reach. I drag myself deeper, elbows digging into the hard floor. Dust bunnies tickle my nose. I want to scratch, but the next line of the audiobook prompts me to ignore the itch and plow forward.
“His fingers wove deeper through her hair, gripping tightly, teaching her how to move.”
My fingers close around the metal ball. I fumble for the controls.
“Suddenly, he pulled her away. When she met his gaze, she saw nothing but raw hunger. ‘I can play dirty, too,’ he said, turning her onto her stomach. Raising her hips, he rubbed—”
I slam the power button.
Blessed silence fills the room. I stay put under the bed and drop my head in my hands. Maybe if I stay hidden long enough, I’ll die of embarrassment and won’t have to face what just happened.
“Faye?” Ryder’s voice is laced with amusement. And something raspier. “You coming out?”
“Would you mind,” I call from under the bed, my words muffled by my palms, “if I never showed my face again?”
He laughs. Actually laughs. “Your students would miss you dearly. Especially Rhys.”
Right. I’m an educator who just subjected a parent to explicit fairy smut.
I shimmy backward, emerging ass first with dust bunnies in my hair and my dignity in tatters. When I stand, brushing off my leggings, Ryder is looking at me with an expression I can’t read. His face is still flushed, but his eyes are bright…
And then—we burst out laughing.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp between chuckles. “I’m so sorry you had to listen to my fairy smut.”
He raises an eyebrow, still grinning. “Is that a thing?”
“Romantasy is a big subgenre.”
“Is that why book club is so popular?”
“We don’t read only romance,” I protest, half smiling, half dying inside. “Sometimes we pick thrillers. Or historical fiction. We have a diverse reading list.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s clearly not convinced.
I press my hands to my hot cheeks. “I’m going to let you finish your job and go die of shame somewhere.”
I’m halfway to the door when his voice stops me.
“If you want to put the book back on,” he says, deadpan, “it was getting to the good part.”
I turn slowly, my mouth dropping open. He’s smirking at me, all casual confidence, even if his ears are still pink.
“Can we please, please pretend this never happened?”
Ryder locks his beautiful eyes on me, the amusement draining into an eager vulnerability. “Okay.” He drags the word. “But could we also pretend that the first time we met never happened?”
I blink. “What?”
“A fresh start.” He shrugs one shoulder. “We both get a clean slate. No assumptions. No—”
“Founders jokes,” I finish for him.
“And no mentions of naughty fairies.” His lips twitch. But his face is hopeful underneath the teasing.
I’m not sure what I’m agreeing to. Or if it’s wise. But I give in anyway. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
I nod.
“Good.” He holds my gaze with that simmering intensity for a beat before he adds, “I’ll finish up the bedroom and get out of your hair.”
He turns back to the AC unit, and I flee to the kitchen once again.
But as I sit at the table, staring blankly at my lesson plans, I’m still smiling.
Weirdly, impossibly smiling, even after the most embarrassing moment of my life.