Chapter 3 #2
Wincing, I glance at the woman—her murderous expression hasn’t changed—and take a couple of steps toward the owner.
Hunter tenses the closer I get, but I ignore him.
“Yes,” I admit slowly, “but I don’t really want anyone out there to know that.
” I gesture at the door, where several people have pressed their faces to the glass to see inside.
I’m hoping they can’t get a good enough look at me to really confirm whether the woman outside saw who she thinks she saw.
I turn away from the door, just in case.
The woman inside scoffs. “I think they know.”
When I glance at her, I’m surprised by her continued frustration. No one would enjoy being locked in a tiny shop like this, but most people would love getting stuck in here with me. She looks like this situation is her worst nightmare.
Of all the reactions… I rub my chest, disliking the tightness that starts growing there.
The owner, dressed in a burnt orange t-shirt and sporting curly hair and a scruffy beard, glances from me to the woman behind me. He still looks like his wildest dreams have come true. “Uh, sorry, Donovan, but I probably shouldn’t unlock the door.”
The woman—Donovan?—groans. “This is your business, Chuck! You can do whatever you want.” When Chuck shrugs, she sighs heavily. “Then let me use your back door before things get worse.”
She must be a local. I wonder if she doesn’t know who I am, unlike her starstruck friend, Chuck. Turning to her again, I offer a sheepish smile. “Most likely they’ve found the back door too.”
Hunter grabs a t-shirt from a nearby display and spreads it over the door, holding it in place with his arm.
It just means the people outside shift down to look in from the bottom half of the door, but at least it’ll be harder for them to see anything.
“Boss is right,” he says to Donovan. “They’ll give up eventually. ”
“How long is ‘eventually’?” she asks him, narrowing her eyes.
He looks at me. I shrug. Then he mirrors the gesture as he says, “Depends on how determined they are.”
“So much for dinner,” Janie mutters and hops onto the counter, seating herself in front of Chuck and pulling out her phone, hopefully to start doing some damage control. “Sorry, Derek.”
It’s my fault. Cole threw me off like he always does, and I lost focus. Showed my face. I know better than to lower my guard, but I was really hoping I could be normal for once.
Ha.
Though my heart starts to race, I force myself to stay focused and do what I can to fix this before things get worse. “Whatever you would have made in sales while we’re here,” I tell Chuck, “I’ll pay double that if you let us stay.”
His jaw drops, and I can almost see his thoughts processing as he tries to figure out a way to work this more to his advantage.
I don’t care if he tells me that he would have sold out of everything in the next two hours; I’ll gladly pay for all of it if it means I can hide out until at least some of the people out there lose interest.
“What if they cause damage trying to get in?” Donovan asks. Her gaze is sharp when I look at her again. “What if we’re stuck here for hours?” She looks like she’s contemplating trying the back door even if it’s surrounded by people.
Dropping my voice into a low register, I keep my words soft as I say, “I’m really sorry you got stuck here with us, Donovan.”
She snorts, studying me with plenty of derision beneath a layer of anxiety in her eyes.
They’re a vivid green color, a nice contrast to the deep red of her hair.
Actually, she has the kind of distinct features that would translate really well to the screen, though based on her reception to me, I don’t think she’d be interested in acting. Or me. Not that I want her interest.
“Don’t say my name like you know me,” she snaps and takes a couple of steps toward the door, looking like a caged animal.
She’s more nervous than she should be.
I wish I could help her, but I’m as trapped here as she is.
I don’t know how to calm her down, so I study her, trying to glean any useful details instead of letting my thoughts stray to how I should have done things differently to avoid this problem in the first place.
I need to keep a level head and focus on helping Donovan get out of here.
As I watch her, Donovan’s arms flex, still folded across her chest, and I can’t help but note her physique.
She’s strong in an athletic sort of way and tan like she spends most of her time outside.
Even with her oversized t-shirt—worn with a pair of bike shorts—hiding the shape of her waist, I’m pretty sure she’s lean but solid and could definitely give Hunter a run for his money.
A lot of actresses would kill to have a body like hers.
She doesn’t look like the kind of person who should fear a crowd, so what’s making her so nervous?
“Okay, Mr. Hollywood,” Donovan says, her lips twisting up in a tense smirk and pulling my gaze back to her face. “Maybe stop looking at me like a piece of fine art and start thinking of a way to get yourself out of this mess so I can get out of your mess.”
Heat flushes through my face, something that hasn’t happened in years.
I genuinely can’t remember the last time I blushed, and my words stick in my throat as Donovan moves to the counter, leaning over it to say something to Chuck.
It’s too quiet for me to hear, though Janie frowns down at her from her perch.
Feeling like a kid in junior high with his first crush, I force my eyes to stay on the collection of hand-painted ceramic bowls to my right instead of letting my gaze stray to Donovan’s long legs that are currently on display.
What is wrong with me?
Donovan is beautiful. I can acknowledge that. But that doesn’t mean I can stare at her like Liam does his guitars. At least she didn’t accuse me of looking at her like a piece of meat? Honestly, I’m not sure what she said is any better, and I don’t like that she caught me studying her.
There’s something familiar about her, not in a way that says we’ve met—I would remember meeting someone like her—but in a way that makes me want to know more about her. But that’s ridiculous, and she’s given me no reason to think she would ever be interested in a conversation.
She just wants to get out of here, a sentiment we share.
I scratch the scruff on my jaw and look over at Hunter, who’s giving me the strangest look as he continues to hold the shirt against the glass, now with another draped over his outstretched leg to obscure the bottom half of the door as well.
He seems just as confused by my actions as I am, so I shrug and return my focus to the bowls before I get myself into trouble.
More trouble.
All things considered, I’m handling this situation pretty well, but I should start coming up with a plan, or I’m likely to make more of a fool of myself.
“Alright, Poster Boy, here’s the deal.”
Frowning, I look over at Donovan, who has straightened up and turned to face me. Her fingers are wrapped around her hair, slowly twisting it into a braid, and for a moment I’m mesmerized by the movement of her hands. Get it together. “Are you talking to me?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Who else?”
“Poster Boy?”
“I have things to do, and I’m sure you do too. And Chuck needs his store back.”
“I’m fine,” Chuck says.
Donovan ignores him. “So here’s the plan.”
“Plan?” I sound like an idiot, and it doesn’t help that she’s looking at me like I am one.
Clearing my throat, I tug my hands from my pockets and fold my arms. I’m Derek Riley.
Derek Riley doesn’t parrot things back to beautiful women, nor does he let other people come up with the plans.
Especially when the public is involved. “Whatever your plan is, I don’t—”
“How about you shut that pretty mouth of yours and just listen, okay?”
She thinks my mouth is pretty? Focus, Derek.
I narrow my eyes, reminding myself that she’s nervous and I can’t take anything she says as fact.
“I’m listening.” And while I’m likely going to argue that her plan won’t work, whatever it is, I’m curious.
Nerves aside, this woman looks entirely capable. Like, capable of doing almost anything.
With a glance at Hunter, who seems torn between staying at the door and coming to stand next to me, Donovan slowly works her way over to me, a strange glint in her eyes.
Either she’s been pretending not to be as starstruck as Chuck and is about to show her cards, or this woman couldn’t care less about who I am.
My money’s on the latter.
It takes everything in me not to flinch when she reaches up and grabs hold of my hat, tugging it from my head.
She studies the LA Thunder logo stitched onto the front—Cole’s rugby team—before holding it against her hip and tilting her head.
“You want to get out of here, Riley? Then take off your shirt.”
I cough. “Excuse me?” And why do I almost do it immediately? It’s like my years of learning to deal with fans and tabloids have rewound beneath her hard stare, and I’m a bumbling teen again, trying to figure out how this whole fame thing works. I want to do whatever makes her happy.
But that’s a bad idea. Very bad idea.
She waves toward my chest. “Believe it or not, I’m trying to help you. Take it off.”
Hunter coughs, taking a step closer.
I hold him back with a raised hand, my focus still on Donovan as I muster up the wits to shut her down. Whatever her game is, I won’t play. “I’m not—”
“Ugh, relax.” With another roll of her eyes, she stalks over to the t-shirt display and grabs one to match Chuck’s, bringing it over to me and holding it out. “There’s a room in the back if you’re shy. You’re changing, not stripping—no one needs to see that.”
I’m pretty sure I hear Janie mutter, “I do,” but I ignore that because I’m starting to catch on to Donovan’s plan, and it’s terrible. But it might be the only one we’ve got.
Besides, no one has ever accused me of being shy before, and her judgment stings more than it should. She doesn’t know me. What right does she have to think I’m something I’m not?
Hoping this somehow helps me take some control over the situation, I tug my shirt over my head and set it on the nearest shelf so I can grab the orange shirt from Donovan. I don’t let myself look at her face while I change, in case she doesn’t like what she sees and knocks my ego down a peg or two.
“Huh. I wondered if the muscle was all post-production magic,” Donovan says when I’m halfway into the new shirt. “Guess I was wrong.”
My hand slips in my effort to tug the shirt down, catching on a bowl and sending it shattering on the laminate floor. I scramble to pull the shirt over my torso and free my head, and then both of us look down at the ceramic pieces littered around our feet.
I look up at Chuck, mortified by my reaction to Donovan’s indirect compliment when people have been saying similar things to me for almost two decades. “I’m sorry,” I choke out.
The man is dazed, eyes fixed on me rather than the ruined pottery. “Don’t worry about it,” he mumbles airily.
I’m already prepared to pay for everything in his store, but that bowl is going to haunt me. I wish I could kick the pieces under the shelf and pretend the last ten minutes haven’t happened. But I can’t dwell on the mistake because my full focus is pulled back to the woman in front of me.
Donovan bites her lip, looking ready to laugh as her eyes take in the orange shirt I’m now wearing. Then they drop lower. “Now the pants, City Boy.”