Chapter 5
Now
It can’t be. Is he real? Did I tempt fate with all my tipsy reminiscing and accidentally conjure him?
Gone are the boyish features, the lanky build, the shock of hair he was forever raking out of his eyes.
In their place is a man who’s fully grown into himself.
What was once youthful is now rugged, his then-wiry frame now solid and leanly muscled.
His angular jaw has filled out, broadened and thickened into a chiseled maturity.
A neat, close-cropped beard follows the cut of his cheekbones, further cementing his new, more seasoned appearance.
His hair’s trimmed shorter in a style that showcases his superior bone structure.
Even his wardrobe’s gotten a glow-up, his collection of threadbare T-shirts and baggy denim replaced by a pair of tailored linen shorts and a slim-fit golf shirt that hugs his biceps.
Despite seeing him on countless magazine covers and in social media clips over the years, it’s still incomprehensible to me that he’s no longer the fresh-faced twenty-three-year-old from my memories.
One thing that hasn’t changed? His bottle-brown eyes, the gradient effect that’s spellbound millions of female fans across the globe even more striking than I remember.
They’re as hypnotic now as they were ten years ago.
He’s studying me simultaneously, and I can feel his eyes tracing me like a touch, grazing over my skin like a lingering caress.
Their effect on me doesn’t seem to have changed much, either.
My heart is beating so fast it’s like a hummingbird’s trapped in my chest, its wings frantically slamming against my rib cage. I can’t make sense of him standing here in my doorway. I must be hallucinating. Someone roofied my rosé.
Ryder’s displaying no such angst. In fact, he’s looking at me like we just saw each other yesterday. “Hey, Scar.” I wince at the nickname, and he clocks it, pausing for a beat. “It’s been a long time.”
It’s been a lifetime. I realize I’m white-knuckling the doorframe and attempt to loosen my grip. “How?” I manage to croak.
“Did I find you?” he supplies, helping me out. “Wasn’t that hard. I’m staying nearby.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder, and for the first time, I notice the old Bronco parked in the driveway. He smiles lightly, not breaking eye contact. “Surprise.”
“No.” I shake my head vigorously, the single word snapping me out of my fugue state and helping me claw back a tiny shred of my composure.
“That is not how this works. You do not just get to show up on my doorstep after ten years with no warning like the Ghost of Scarlett’s Past and say, Surprise!
” I huff an exasperated breath to underscore my point.
His mouth twitches into a smile, head tilting, and I’m reminded of how much I used to love earning one of his smiles—his real smiles, the ones only I would get, not the phony, practiced movie star smile he’d give everyone else.
“Come on, Scar. I wasn’t about to let the first time we saw each other again be in front of a bunch of cameras. ”
The words hit me like a lightning bolt. They’re so much like the ones he whispered in my ear all those years ago—the ones that changed everything—and I’m instantly transported back in time, my hard-won composure slipping away just as quickly as it arrived.
Ryder watches me remember with an inscrutable expression on his face, and I wonder if this is how this week is going to be, an endless series of flashbacks marching across my memory like an invading army, assaulting my psyche and wreaking havoc on my emotional state.
And the worst part is, now that I think about it, I know he’s right.
Waltzing into that press conference tomorrow expecting to pull off a blasé reunion in front of a gaggle of gossip reporters desperate for a dramatic narrative was na?ve at best and reckless at worst. I’m not sure what I was thinking.
I’m a good actress, but I’m not that good.
Ryder watches the realization slot into place on my face. “Not the reunion you had in mind, huh? Were you gonna slap me or something? Should I duck?”
“No,” I say defensively, like the very thought is ridiculous.
More like a roundhouse kick. He arches an eyebrow and I sigh, my shoulders sagging in defeat.
“I was going to look fantastic and be very aloof,” I admit, running my hand over the tangle of frizz atop my head self-consciously.
Damn humidity selling me down the river.
“Well, you’re one for two. You haven’t aged a day,” he says with heat in his gaze, his eyes tracking down my body appreciatively, and I have to swat down the butterflies that swarm to life in my stomach. “But that was the gasp heard round the world.”
“Your face is the ultimate jump scare, what can I say?” I respond sweetly. I’m finally regaining my footing, the familiar tempo of our teasing banter awakening a dormant corner of my brain from a long slumber. It’s all coming back to me now.
Ryder’s grin is amused. I think it’s coming back to him too. “So are you gonna keep me sweating out here, or are you going to invite me in?”
“I don’t know who you bribed to get my address, but it’s got to be illegal,” I grumble as I begrudgingly open the door wider to let him in. “Against stalker laws. A HIPAA violation. Something.”
He chuckles as he breezes past me into the house, and I chafe at how quickly he’s making himself right at home. Waltzing back into my life like he never left. It’s like ten years are gone in a blink. I wish I could be half as breezy and nonchalant as he is. I am hyper-chalant.
He sidles up to the kitchen island, setting his keys down and leaning a hip against the stone countertop. “I got one of these too,” he says, gesturing toward the flamboyant gift basket.
“Want mine?” I quip, nudging it his way, then move to grab a Pellegrino from the fridge. I hold up the bottle in silent offer, and when he accepts with a nod of his head, I slide him one across the island.
“Come on, you’ve got to try the ‘artisanal pretzels,’ ” he says in a snooty voice, then digs through the basket until he locates his bounty and holds them up in triumph. “They’re your favorite: dark chocolate with sea salt. I ate like half a bag already.”
I cast him a wary look. They’re your favorite. What’s he playing at with this? It’s unnerving, the way he’s acting like everything’s fine between us, like no time has passed. Like nothing ever happened.
“I’m good, thanks. But help yourself.”
He shrugs as if to say, Suit yourself, then does just that, ripping open the bag and grabbing a handful. We regard each other cautiously as he chews, neither of us wanting to speak first—or perhaps not knowing what to say.
He finally breaks the silence. “Sorry for just showing up here.”
The bold-faced lie makes me laugh out loud. “No you’re not.”
His guilty grin totally exposes him. “I really am! I know it doesn’t make a ton of sense, but I think part of me just thought you’d be expecting me.”
I snap my fingers. “You know something, you’re right. You antagonizing me the second I arrive in Seafolly is absolutely something I should have anticipated.”
He clutches his heart, mock-wounded. “Ouch. And here I thought the statute of limitations on my juvenile misbehavior would have expired by now.”
“Never,” I tell him. “I’m taking that grudge to the grave.”
If possible, his grin grows wider. He rakes his fingers through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes my stomach hurt. “I’ve missed this.”
I blink at him, saying nothing.
He finally breaks eye contact, tossing another pretzel in his mouth. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he says as he munches, glancing around the spacious room approvingly. “We’ve sure come a long way from those crappy Riverview Apartments, haven’t we?”
My chest tightens at the mention of the extended-stay apartment complex—lovingly nicknamed by Ryder and Jase as Riverspew—where all the Lost Letter cast and crew were put up for the duration of filming.
The accommodations were mediocre at best—run-down and no frills, with dated appliances and faded couches that leached a mildewy cloud every time you flopped down on them—but they were also a ridiculous amount of fun, like a college dorm where all your friends lived down the hall (or at least, what I imagine a dorm would’ve been like if I’d actually gone to college).
Despite the place’s shortcomings, I remember it all fondly: the late nights staying up talking, swapping stories of other sets and running through the next day’s scenes; our pathetic attempts at cooking when we’d get back from set too late to order takeout; the pranks Ryder and Jase would play on each other where I’d be alternately recruited in collusion or caught in the crossfire.
And since none of us were household names yet, we were able to fly completely under the radar, coming and going as we pleased without anyone giving us a second glance.
It was the last time any of us were able to get away with that.
I smile wistfully. “It had its charms.”
The corner of his mouth tugs up suggestively. “I can recall a few.”
So can I. Like the lazy weekends spent in bed and the long nights making love, our bodies a restless tangle of impatient limbs.
The way the sunlight cut through the blinds, dappling the skin of his bare chest. The feel of his fingertips on my back, writing out secret messages for me to decipher.
The sound of his breathing as he slept, his head burrowed into the crook of my neck, his ruffled hair tickling my collarbone.
The way Ryder’s looking at me now tells me he knows exactly what I’m remembering.
Instead of confirming his suspicions, I narrow him a look, feigning disapproval. “What I meant was that no one knew who we were. Or cared, for that matter. It was just…a simpler time,” I trail off, peeling the corner of the Pellegrino label.