Chapter 9
NINE
noia
The sound of Ryder’s heavy sigh follows me up the stairs. Part of me wants to turn back and see what would happen if I just let myself fall.
But I can’t. This isn’t real—there’s no way he is real.
I close my bedroom door and lean against it. Sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest, I press my palms into my eyes until I see swirls of light.
“Get it together,” I whisper. “He’s not real. This isn’t happening. You’ll probably wake up tomorrow and find yourself in a freaking loony bin.”
The memory of his lips on mine, the way his tongue swept into my mouth, makes my thighs clench together.
Crawling into bed, I pull the covers over my head and hope that when morning comes, I’ll wake up alone. That my life will go back to being simple, predictable, and safe.
But sleep doesn’t come. I toss and turn, replaying the events from tonight in my head. Dancing with him. The fight. The kiss. The last thing he’d said to me before I ran away.
‘Hopefully, sometime very soon, real enough to fuck you.’
When I finally drift off, I dream of large hands, stormy gray eyes and writhing tattoos in a world where fiction and reality blur, until I can’t tell where one world ends, and the other begins.
I wake to sunlight streaming through my curtains and the smell of coffee drifting under my nose.
For one blissful moment, I forget everything. Then it all comes crashing back—the bar, the fight, Ryder’s unexpected confession.
The floorboards creak outside my door, followed by a soft knock.
Groaning, I bury my face in my pillow. He’s still here.
Damn it.
“Go ‘way,” I mumble.
Despite my command, the door opens.
“Rise and shine.” Ryder’s voice is infuriatingly cheerful. “I made coffee.”
I peek out from under my pillow to see him standing in the doorway, looking hot as fuck in the morning light.
His hair is tousled, the bruises from last night already starting to fade to a dull purple.
The T-shirt I lent him stretches across his shoulders, sweats hanging low on his hips and he’s holding two mugs of coffee.
“I hate that you’re so cheerful. You’re not a morning person, remember?”
He lowers his chin and narrows his eyes at me. “Oh, I can go all broody and gruff in a matter of seconds, kitten. Just say the word.”
His voice skitters across my skin and shoots straight to my core.
What the fuck?
I push myself up to sit against the headboard and pull the covers up to my chest like a shield. “My dad’s T-shirt is almost too tight.”
He grins, walks over to the bed and hands me a steaming mug. “It works. And it smells nice. Like you.”
The way he says it—all husky and warm—makes me want to dive back under the covers and never come out.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Like, I don’t know, back in the pages of my manuscript?” I grumble, taking a cautious sip. The coffee is perfect—just the right amount of cream and sugar.
Damn him.
“Nope.” He sits on the edge of my bed, making the mattress dip. “I’m all yours today.”
I narrow my eyes at him over the rim of my mug. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we’re going on another date.”
I choke on my coffee. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His eyes gleam with mischief. “We made a deal, remember? I help you write, you help me live. And today, we’re going to have some fun.”
“I have work to do,” I protest weakly.
“Yeah, you do. On me.” He winks, and I feel my face flame. “Besides, I’ve been thinking about our story problem.”
“Our story problem?”
“You can’t write because you’re blocked. And I think I know why.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re afraid.”
“I am not—”
“You’re afraid to let yourself feel anything real after what that dickwad did to you.” His voice softens. “So you’re hiding, trying to write about passion and love and happily ever-after’s without actually experiencing any of it for yourself.”
I stare at him, speechless.
“So here’s an amendment to my previous proposal.
” He takes the mug from my hands and sets it on the nightstand.
“Every day we do something different. Live out the storyline. We do all the things you’ve been afraid to do.
We have fun, take risks. And hopefully you can start to feel happy and inspired again. ”
“And then what?”
He gives me a slow, devastating smile. “Then, as we already discussed, every night after we get home, you write it all down.”
I want to say no, kick him out of my room and barricade the door. But the challenge in his eyes—warm and alive—makes me hesitate.
“What exactly did you have in mind for today?”
His grin widens. “That’s my girl. Dress in something comfortable and bring a swimsuit.”
“A swimsuit? It’s barely sixty degrees outside!”
“Trust me, kitten,” he says, already heading for the door. You’re going to love what I have planned for us today.”
The door closes behind him with a click, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and half-empty cup of coffee sitting on my nightstand.