Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
noia
The drive back is tense. Ryder fiddles with the radio, stopping on a hard rock station playing ‘You Give Love A Bad Name’ and turns it up, drumming his fingers against his thigh.
I can’t help but steal glances at his full lips, and the shadow of stubble darkening the line of his jaw. His damp hair is curling slightly at the nape of his neck, and I have to grip the steering wheel tight to keep myself from reaching out to touch it.
What the hell is happening to me?
When we pull into the driveway, the sun is high in the sky.
Ryder hops out before I have a chance to cut the engine and stretches his arms over his head. His shirt rides up, revealing a strip of tanned skin and a trail of dark hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans.
My clit throbs in response, and I force myself to look away. How I managed to push myself away while he was on the verge of fingering me, I have no idea.
“Still hungry?” he asks as I follow him up the porch steps.
“Yes,” I admit, fumbling with my keys.
Inside, Goonie greets us with an indignant meow, winding between my legs like he’s been abandoned for weeks instead of hours.
“I’ll feed him,” Ryder says, already moving into the kitchen. “You want a sandwich?”
“Sure,” I nod, suddenly feeling awkward in my own home.
The tension from what almost happened at the hot spring clings to me like a ghost, lingering in every tentative glance at his muscular back and bulging biceps.
While Ryder rummages through the fridge, I slip upstairs to change, peeling off my damp clothes and pulling on a soft oversized sweater and shorts.
When I come back down, he’s laid out a spread on the kitchen island—turkey, cheese, avocado, and some chips he probably found in the back of the pantry.
“This okay?” he asks, looking strangely domestic as he slices tomatoes.
“Perfect, thank you,” I murmur, sliding onto a stool.
We eat in companionable silence as Goonie purrs, winding between our feet, begging for scraps, until Ryder clears his throat and wipes his mouth with a napkin.
“Are you going to write about what we did today?”
I take a sip of water. “Actually, yeah. Today was... inspiring.”
He gives me a slow smile as he puffs up his chest. “Good.”
Trying not to squirm in my seat, I ask, “What’s next on your ‘Help Noia Get Her Mojo Back’ agenda?”
He takes another bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m thinking we should—” His eyes narrow as he fixes his gaze on something outside the window.
Spinning around, I follow his line of sight. “What is it?”
He stands so abruptly his chair nearly topples over. “What the fuck?”
Sandwich forgotten, he strides over to the window and presses a palm against the glass.
“What?” I ask, hurrying over to stand beside him.
His voice is filled with disbelief. “That’s my truck.”
I follow his gaze. A massive black pickup is sitting in my driveway. It wasn’t there when we pulled in—I’m certain of it.
“How—?”
But Ryder is already at the door.
I follow him out onto the porch, watching as he approaches the sleek black truck. It’s a beast of a machine—a black Ford F-150 with tinted windows and oversized tires, towering over my mid-sized SUV.
“This is my truck,” he says again, voice tinged with disbelief as he runs his hand along the hood. “My fucking baby.”
“There’s no way,” I gasp.
“But it is,” he insists. “I recognize every scratch, every dent.”
Ryder circles it slowly, trailing his fingers along the glossy paint. “The custom exhaust, the aftermarket rims I installed myself.” He peers through the driver’s side window. “Even the air freshener I hung from the rear view mirror.”
My voice is barely above a whisper when I finally speak. “I never wrote about any of that.”
When he reaches the driver’s side, he tugs on the handle and opens the door.
“Keys are in the ignition,” he says, looking back at me with wide, excited eyes.
“Shut. Up.” But even as I say the words, I can’t deny what’s right in front of me. Just like waking up to Ryder cooking breakfast in my kitchen and him kissing me in the hot spring.
I walk over to take a peek inside as he slides into the driver’s seat like he’s done it a thousand times before, hands caressing the steering wheel. When he turns the key, the engine roars to life, the deep, powerful rumble vibrating its metal frame.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, reverently running his hands over the dashboard.
My mind is racing. This can’t be happening. First Ryder shows up out of nowhere, and now his truck appears out of thin air in my driveway? The boundaries between fiction and reality are crumbling faster than I can put them back together.
“Get in!” he yells, revving the engine.
“What? No!” I yell back over the ferocious rumble, crossing my arms. “I’m not wearing any shoes!”
“So? We won’t go far.” His eyes are wild with excitement. “Come on, kitten. Live a little.”
“Where would we even go, anyway?”
His grin is wild and dangerous. “Anywhere. Everywhere. Come on. Aren’t you excited to see what happens next?”
The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to go back inside, lock the door and call a freaking psychiatrist. But there’s another part of me—the part that writes romance novels about risk, passion and adventure—already urging me around to the passenger side.
“Just a quick drive,” I tell him firmly as I climb inside. “I gotta get some writing done.”
The interior smells like him, all leather and sandalwood. The seats are worn in all the right places, and there’s a small tear in the upholstery near the gearshift. It feels lived in and very… real.
“Buckle up buttercup, and hold on,” he orders as he throws the truck into reverse.
We tear down the gravel driveway, stones pinging against the undercarriage. Ryder handles the massive vehicle like a pro and when we hit the main road, he guns it, the force of the acceleration pressing me back against the seat.
“Jesus!” I shriek as I grab the oh-shit handle. “Are you trying to kill us?”
“Just enjoying being behind the wheel again, kitten,” he laughs, easing off the gas a little. “You have no idea how good this feels.”
I watch his profile as he drives—the way his hands clench the steering wheel, the feral glint in his eyes as he peers happily through the windshield with a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
He looks... content. Like a puzzle that’s finally found its missing piece.
“This is insane,” I murmur, more to myself than him. “First you show up outta nowhere, and now your truck materializes itself in my driveway?”
“I told you I was remembering things,” he says, shooting me a glance. “Things you didn’t write. Like this truck. I rebuilt the engine myself after I got back from my last tour.”
“Tour? Like, military?”
“Afghanistan. Two tours.”
I frown. “I never actually wrote that either. It was just an idea.”
His knuckles go white as he grips the steering wheel. “But I still remember all of it. The heat, the dust, the way the air smelled right before a sandstorm hit.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes, the radio playing softly in the background. I watch his face and wonder what else he remembers.
“What else?”
Unclenching his hands, he taps his thumb against the steering wheel, thinking for a few moments before he answers.
“I remember the shop where I bought this truck and the first time I took it off-roading. Oh! And the dent I put in the tailgate? It’s from when I backed into a light pole outside my tattoo parlor. ”
My stomach does a somersault. “Your tattoo parlor?”
He nods. “Skin & Ink.”
“Never heard of it.”
He shrugs. “Not yet. But who knows what tomorrow will bring?”