Chapter 11
ELEVEN
noia
I duck behind the bamboo screen to change into my bathing suit, trying not to get excited about what the next hour might bring.
My hands shake a little as I get undressed. This is insane. I’m about to get half-naked with a fictional character who somehow materialized in my house, and charged a spa experience to my credit card.
The black bikini I packed suddenly feels too small and revealing. It’s a simple two-piece, nothing too scandalous, but when I catch my reflection in the full length mirror tucked into the alcove, I realize it shows more skin than I’ve revealed to anyone in months.
“You okay in there?” Ryder’s voice carries over the sound of water lapping against stone.
“Fine,” I answer, sounding unsure even to myself. Wrapping one of the plush robes tightly around my body, I clear my throat. “Just... need a minute.”
When I step out from behind the screen, Ryder is already lounging in the largest pool, arms stretched across the stone ledge, water lapping at his chest. Head tilted toward the ceiling, his dark hair is slicked back.
Steam rises around him as rivulets run down his shoulders and the tattoos covering his torso, like he’s some sort of mythical sex god.
He looks up at me and his eyes go molten. “You planning to swim in that robe?”
“Maybe.” I clutch the terry cloth tight. “This was your idea, remember? I never agreed to getting in the water.”
“Come on, kitten,” he growls, voice low and coaxing. “The water’s perfect. And those mineral properties our guide told us about? They’re supposed to ease tension.”
“I don’t have any tension.”
He snorts. “Right. And I’m not sitting here waiting with bated breath to see what you’re hiding from me underneath that fluffy robe.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Ryder...”
“Just get in the damn water, Noia. I promise to behave.”
His gruff but gentle tone makes me pause. When was the last time I actually did something that scared me? Or let myself be vulnerable with someone?
Before I lose my nerve, I drop the robe.
Ryder goes completely still, his eyes traveling slowly from my face down to my toes and back up again, lingering on the curves of my hips, and the swell of my breasts barely contained by the tiny swatch of black fabric.
“Fuck me,” he breathes before squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head as if to clear it.
I quickly slip into the water, grateful when the hot mineral-rich liquid covers me up to my shoulders. The temperature is perfect—hot enough to make my muscles relax instantly, but not so hot I can’t breathe.
“Better?” Ryder asks, his voice sounding strained.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The pool is smaller than it looked from the outside, and even though we’re sitting on opposite sides, it feels almost as if the heat is radiating from his body alone.
We sit in silence, relaxing, for about ten minutes before I speak up.
“So,” I say, desperate to break the tension. “What happens now? Do we just... sit here?”
“We could talk.” He leans back against the stone edge, arms spread wide. “Get to know each other better.” His eyes are hooded but focused, like a predator stalking its prey. “Ask me anything.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Anything?”
“Yup. I’m an open book.”
“Ha, ha. Okay...” I take a deep breath, the steam making my head feel a little fuzzy. “What’s it feel like? Being fictional and then suddenly... not?”
He considers, jaw working as he thinks. “It’s like waking up from a dream you didn’t know you were having. Everything that happened before feels... hazy. Like memories that aren’t quite mine. But every moment since I showed up in your living room? Crystal clear.”
I watch the water ripple around his shoulders as he shifts, moving a fraction closer to me, then he pauses, running a hand through his wet hair. “I’m starting to remember things. Things you didn’t write.”
My heart skips a beat. “Like what?”
“Like my apartment above a tattoo shop and the smell of coffee from the café next door. My motorcycle—a 1976 Triumph Bonneville that I rebuilt myself.” His eyes grow distant. “I remember a woman named Claire who taught me how to ink my first tattoo. A dog named Rookie I had as a kid.”
“That sounds impossible,” I whisper. “I never wrote any of that.”
“I know.” He looks at me intently. “My turn,” he says. “Why romance novels?”
“That’s your question? Really?”
He shrugs. “I want to know why you chose to write about love when you’re so terrified of it yourself.”
The question hits deeper than I expected it to. I sink lower into the water, letting the heat seep into my bones while I consider how to answer.
“Because in books, love always wins,” I finally say. “The hero shows up and fights for the heroine. He doesn’t just... disappear.”
“Like Eric did.”
I nod, throat tight. “In my books, the guy who says he loves you won’t leave you behind in a thousand-dollar dress while three hundred people wait as your life implodes all around you.”
Ryder’s expression turns dark. “Tell me about him.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to understand what kind of asshole has the balls to break someone like you.”
He says those words like I’m something precious that shouldn’t have been damaged, and it makes my heart skip a beat.
“He was... perfect on paper,” I admit. “Good job, nice family. My mom loved him at first. My agent really loved him. Hell, even Goonie tolerated him, which is saying something.”
“But?”
I trace patterns in the water with my hands. “But he never looked at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”
Ryder goes still. “How am I looking at you?”
“Like you can see straight into my soul. Like you actually want to be here with me.” Our gazes lock. “Eric always seemed like he was somewhere else, even when we were together. Like I was just another item on his to-do list.”
“Fuck him,” Ryder says, the venom in his tone soft and lethal.
“Want to know the worst part? I knew. Deep down, I knew he wasn’t the one. But I convinced myself that fairy tale love was just fiction. That settling for someone who showed up and paid half the bills was enough.”
“You’re terrified of love, aren’t you, kitten?”
“I’m not terrified of love,” I protest weakly.
“Bullshit,” he counters. “You write these incredible, passionate love stories where people risk life and limb for each other. But in real life? You were going to marry some guy who didn’t even bother to show up.”
“Eric wasn’t—” He’s right. Eric was safe. Predictable. The kind of guy who remembered to put the toilet seat down and never surprised me with anything more adventurous than maybe a new flavor of yogurt.
“He wasn’t what?” Ryder presses, sliding even closer.
“He wasn’t you,” I whisper, the words falling from my lips before I can stop them.
The admission hangs in the steamy air. Ryder goes still, gray eyes searching my face.
“What do you mean, he wasn’t me?” he asks, floating closer.
My laugh comes out shaky. “I mean, he wasn’t passionate or dangerous. He was... comfortable. And after my dad died and my mom went through her whole breakdown, comfortable felt like enough.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“No,” I answer, the word barely audible. “It wasn’t. I kept waiting to feel something—anything—for him. But every time he touched me, I just felt... empty.”
Ryder is close enough now that I can see the water droplets clinging to his dark eyelashes. “And when I touch you?”
My breath catches. “I—”
“When I touch you...” he continues, his voice dropping an octave into a rough whisper. “...what do you feel?”
Everything.
Fire.
Need.
Terror.
Fucking alive.
Rather than answer, I duck under the water, hoping the water will mask the heat burning in my cheeks. When I resurface, Ryder is still close enough for our knees to brush under the water.
“Running away again?” he asks softly.
“I wasn’t running. I was... ducking.”
His laugh is low and rough. “Same thing.”
As much as I want to argue, I know he’s right. I’ve been running from real feelings my entire adult life. It’s easier to write about passion than to let yourself feel it. Safer to create fictional men who can’t disappoint me than to risk my heart with someone real.
“You know what I think?” Ryder reaches up and pushes a wet strand of hair away from my forehead before grazing his knuckles against my cheek.
“What?” I can barely breathe.
“I think, somehow, you brought me here because you were tired of playing it safe. Your subconscious knew what you needed, even if you aren’t ready to admit it.”
“And what’s that?”
He reaches up and traces his thumb along my bottom lip, making me shiver despite the heat. “Someone who won’t run. Someone who’ll fight for you. Someone who will make you feel everything you’ve ever been afraid to feel.”
The air between us crackles with electricity. His thumb continues to trace my bottom lip slowly back and forth, making every nerve ending in my body scream for more.
“This is crazy,” I murmur. “You’re just a character from my barely written book.”
“And yet.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “Here we are.”
I should move away. Slide back to my side of the pool and put some distance between us. But my body refuses to listen to reason.
Instead, I find myself drifting closer, drawn by some magnetic force I can’t explain.
He breathes my name like a prayer. “Noia.”
“Yes?”
“Tell me you want this.”
“Honestly?” I swallow hard. “I think I do.”