Chapter 13
Now
“Why are you fidgeting?” Ryder finally asks, casting me a sideways glance as he changes lanes, and I congratulate myself for winning our game of verbal chicken.
He’s right, of course, but I can’t help it.
I have ants in my proverbial pants, although in lieu of pants, I’m actually wearing a poppy-red romper with fluttery straps and a ruffled hem that’s a little shorter than I’d like—not that Ryder seems to mind, if the way his eyes have been lingering on my legs is any indication.
It felt cute and weather appropriate when I put it on, but now I just feel exposed and conspicuous, the opposite of what I should’ve chosen if we’re trying to go unnoticed.
We’ve been locked in a stalemate ever since he picked me up, the awkward silence saturating the car almost as thick as the humidity outside.
He’s clearly waiting me out in the hopes I’ll crack first, as evidenced by the smile he’s biting back as I fiddle with the Bronco’s radio controls in a blatant effort to avoid conversation.
Meanwhile, I’m getting more and more agitated with each minute that passes.
I’ve been second-guessing my decision to accept his dinner invitation since I left him on the tarmac this morning.
What’s more, I have no idea what we’re doing or where he’s taking me, and he hasn’t offered a single clue to help mitigate my mounting panic.
I guess I assumed we’d hole up at his place to avoid being seen—not that that doesn’t come with its own set of hazards—though clearly he has something else in mind.
The thought of being spotted out with him on a quasi-date and the firestorm of press that would ensue has me practically vibrating with anxiety.
“I’m confused about your plan here,” I finally tell him, adjusting the air vents in an attempt to keep myself from sweating through my clothes.
How is it that he looks fresh as a daisy in his shorts and collared button-down while I’m slowly boiling to death inside this hotbox?
I’m pretty sure it’s cooler on the surface of the sun.
“I assumed we’d be eating dinner at your rental.
You of all people know we can’t just show up to a restaurant in Seafolly and expect to blend in.
And I’m really not up for being hounded by a mob of Letterheads. ”
“Is that why you’re freaking out? It’s like you think this is my first rodeo.
” He tsks like I’m hopeless. “I’m not taking you to a restaurant.
And we’re not going to my place because I thought it might be…
” he trails off, the words left dangling in midair, but I don’t need his help to finish that sentence: Too intimate.
Dangerous. It’s as if by unspoken agreement, we both know that being alone together is tempting fate in ways neither of us can predict.
He clears his throat. “Anyway, I just thought you’d be more comfortable in neutral territory.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Which would be…?”
“And ruin the surprise?” The traffic light up ahead flashes yellow, and his eyes bounce to mine as we slow to a stop. “If I remember correctly, you used to like those.”
Sunshine streams through the window behind him, framing his face in an otherworldly halo glow, the blond hairs on his forearm catching the light as his hand drapes casually over the steering wheel.
He looks almost angelic sitting there, radiant and silhouetted by sun. “I used to like a lot of things.”
A shadow passes over his gaze, and I try to decipher what’s behind it before he hides it away. What’s going on behind his eyes was always a guessing game for me. “You used to like me.”
It’s unnerving to be pinned under his spotlight like this with no way to escape. “I still like you, Ry.”
“Oh yeah? How much?” His lips twitch.
I mime sticking a finger down my throat, grateful for the excuse to break eye contact. “Fishing for compliments is unbecoming of the Sexiest Man Alive,” I say pointedly, then nod at the light. “It’s green.”
I let out a slow breath as he accelerates, the live oaks lining the road blurring into a leafy tunnel again.
We’ve crossed one town over into neighboring St. John’s Island when Ryder takes an abrupt left turn, pulls into a busy shopping center that’s crowded with cars, and swings the Bronco into a space outside a brick-front building with a driftwood sign that reads Castaway Kitchen.
“You said we weren’t going to a restaurant!” I squawk, scrambling upright in my seat.
He shoots me a quizzical look like, Relax, woman, before whipping out his phone and dialing a number. “Hi there, I’m picking up a takeout order.” He pauses. “Yes, I’m outside now. Under the name Cole Trickle. Thanks.”
He hangs up, side-eyeing me as he dons a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap emblazoned with a Seafolly Stingrays logo. “You’re telling on yourself, you know. You’ve obviously had an assistant too long if you’re not familiar with curbside pickup.”
“I know what curbside pickup is,” I say a little too defensively, which only makes me sound more like an out-of-touch princess.
“Sure you do,” Ryder razzes me, dimples flaring beneath his stubble. Who even has dimples anyway? That crap’s only supposed to exist in romance novels.
I squint at him. “Cole Trickle?”
“Days of Thunder,” he supplies. “I cycle through Tom Cruise characters for my aliases.”
“Of course you do.” Why am I even surprised? “How were you able to act normal around him? When you filmed together, I mean.”
“Oh Scarlett,” he says seriously, and I lean forward in anticipation. “I was the least normal I’ve ever been.”
I snort a laugh, and just then a gangly teenage boy exits the restaurant’s side door, juggling—I count quickly—five large carryout bags. That can’t possibly be all for us, can it? I’m all for the occasional cheat meal, but this would qualify as a full-blown affair.
But there’s no time to inquire further because Ryder’s already grabbed his wallet from the center console and rolled down the window to greet the kid.
Since he hasn’t supplied me with a disguise of my own, I turn away reflexively, shielding my face behind a curtain of hair, and pretend there’s something fascinating happening out the passenger side. Thank God for tinted windows.
“Mr. Trickle?”
“That’s me,” Ryder responds gamely, and I let out a quiet laugh as he transfers the bags to the back seat and starts to settle the check.
Meanwhile, I’m still staring out the window like a sullen teenager contemplating their existence, and at this point I just feel rude.
Takeout kid must be wondering what’s so captivating about the row of shrubbery outside my window.
Not sure why I didn’t think to just bury my face in my phone like the rest of humankind.
A loud car horn blares suddenly outside Ryder’s window, and my head whips around before I can catch myself—and I immediately lock eyes with the takeout kid.
It takes a second, but faster than you can say paparazzi, his eyes are widening, recognition dawning on his pubescent face. “Hey, you guys look a lot like—”
“We’re body doubles,” Ryder breaks in quickly, cutting him off. “You know, lookalikes? Stand-ins? Just in town for all the charity stuff this week. You know, to help with crowd control.”
It’s one explanation too many. Takeout teenager looks dubious. He’s not buying it.
“Sure,” he says slowly, and yep, our cover is definitely blown. We need to get out of here, pronto. “Could I grab a selfie? My girlfriend will freak,” he asks, already pulling his cell phone from his back pocket.
Ryder’s throwing the car in reverse as he tosses a wad of bills out the window.
“Sorry, we’re running late. Keep the change!
” he calls before peeling out of the spot like we’re Thelma and Louise—or at least, attempting to peel out.
In his haste to make a quick getaway, he ends up clipping an abandoned shopping cart someone’s wedged next to the curb, sending it careening across the parking lot.
The look of sheer panic on his face is a thing of beauty.
Ryder’s a good Samaritan to his core, so I know it goes against everything he stands for not to stop the car and grab the runaway cart before it hurtles into another vehicle (or worse, a person), but he also knows that doing so would just draw more attention to ourselves and thwart our escape.
His hands flex on the wheel as he wrestles with the choice, and I can tell the exact moment he decides to cut his losses, throwing the car into drive.
But when he lurches forward, his front tire hops the curb, making a loud squealing noise, and a bunch of bystanders turn and stare.
He lets loose a string of expletives as he floors it, peeling out of the parking lot practically on two wheels while I nearly combust in laughter.
“Did Tom Cruise teach you those car-handling skills too?” I manage between gasps, unable to pull in a full breath.
“Shut up.”
“Ever heard of curbside pickup?” I say mockingly, and he groans and snaps the AC to max vent, sending me into a fresh round of hysterics.
I pluck the Stingrays hat off his head and place it on my own. “I can’t imagine why this brilliant disguise didn’t fool him,” I deadpan, pulling it down low over my eyes. “What do you think, could I go incognito?” I tease, peeking up at him from under the brim.
He flicks the bill of the cap up, his topaz eyes glowing gold. “I could pick you out of any crowd, Scarlett Everhart.”
The years fall away when he looks at me like that, carrying me backward in time like a current I can’t fight against. Riding shotgun with Ryder makes me feel twenty-one again, relaxed and carefree and in the moment, free from the baggage I drag around like a weighted blanket.