Page 1

RYDER

K nock. Knock. Knock.

You have got to be fucking kidding me. I’m in the middle of nowhere, and they still found me? Fucking bloodhounds. These people need to make a career out of finding people who don’t want to be found.

I lean against the leather recliner and ignore the sound, cradling a chipped mug of coffee I didn’t even bother to warm. It’s cold, bitter. Just the way I like it. Just the way everything’s been lately.

The knock stops, and silence settles over the cabin.

It’s been two days since I arrived. Two days of peace and quiet.

No screaming fans. No fucking camera clicks.

No demands for an encore or a new single or some social media apology about something I had no idea I did. No executives breathing down my neck.

Just trees, sky, and the goddamn ache in my fingers that won’t leave, even though I haven’t touched the guitar. Or maybe, that’s the reason they ache in the first place.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Goddammit. My jaw ticks, and my heart sinks. I thought this place was off-grid. At least, it’s what my bandmate and best buddy, Knox, told me. I even paid extra for isolation. Only he knew where I was, and I doubt he’d sell me out.

The soft knock becomes louder. Three sharp pounds and a small voice yelling, “I know someone’s in there. Please open up.”

For three whole seconds, I ignore her. Ignore the desperation, the plea, the urgency because I’ve seen and heard it all.

All the lies, excuses, and whatever others come up with to pretend they “bumped” into me or saw me “accidentally”.

It takes them approximately two beats before the real reason comes rushing out.

I didn’t know you were here. Could you sign my chest, and let’s take a selfie?

Oh my God. You’re Ryder Cross, right? I’m such a fan! Can I get your number?

I had no idea you were vacationing here. Can you follow me on Instagram?

I’m so tired of this shit, but the knocks don’t stop. If anything, they only become louder and more insistent. With no hope of getting back that earlier peace, I set the mug down on the table and stand slowly.

It’s probably some kid with a camera who can’t wait to post it on social media and let everyone know I’m here. Or maybe it’s a pap trying to do the same. Or one of those nutjobs who sends me white shirts with a note written in red lipstick about how they can’t wait to have my babies.

Fuck.

I try to peek in the window and can’t see shit. So I guess it’s one person, then. Can’t be too hard to deal with.

My fingers curl around the cold brass knob, and I yank it open, ready to give hell to whoever dared to come here and interrupted me.

I stop cold, words lodging in my throat, tendrils of warmth threading through my chest and my limbs. It’s not a social media famewhore. Not a pap. Just a young woman.

A fan? Hmm. For some odd reason, I know she’s not. Definitely not the kind who’ll beg me to impregnate her.

Desire slams into me from out of nowhere, hitting me like a freight train. She’s shorter than me, drenched, and her clothes are sticking to her body. Her dark brown pixie hair clings to her forehead, cheeks flushed from cold or maybe nerves or both.

Wide green eyes blink up at me, confused, hopeful, startled. A flush creeps down her throat to where her faded gray shirt sticks to her skin. Something stupid is printed across the chest: A book fell on my head. I can only blame my shelf.

Uhm, what?

She’s got black denim cutoffs and beat-up Converse on, which isn’t something anyone with sense will wear while trudging the woods. Well, unless she wasn’t prepared for a hike, no matter how short it was.

Her knees are scraped, her backpack slung over one shoulder. Yup, she doesn’t look like she’ll willingly walk all the way here for an autograph.

“Ryder Cross?”

On second thought, maybe she either wants an autograph or a sound bite. I wouldn’t put it past the paps to use someone as beautiful as her to get something from me, something to splash on their front pages. This wariness and skepticism are both rooted in experience, so nothing is ever far-fetched.

I still remember that one time, someone dressed as a cop fell before me, and when I picked her up, she snatched my silver necklace—the one I had custom-made. The next thing I knew, thousands of fans were bidding for it on eBay.

So no, I’m not paranoid. I’m hyper vigilant, which is a must in this industry.

“You’re Ryder Cross, right?” she repeats, her forehead furrowing.

I don’t answer, just straighten to my full height and raise a brow at her. Let’s see the kind of game she wants to play.

Instead of flirting head-on, though, she does the opposite.

She scowls. Not starstruck. Not breathless. Just … annoyed. Unspeakably, thoroughly annoyed. Like I-ignored-her-dog kind of annoyed.

“Of course it’s you.” She tilts her head to the ceiling and snaps her eyes shut, her nostrils flaring. She is the very picture of frustration.

“You know me, huh?”

She takes a deep breath and casts me the sharpest glare I’ve had the misfortune to see. “Hard not to. Your face was on every social media page the year you punched a DJ in Berlin for not playing your songs.”

That one makes me snort. “That’s fake news, actually. He offered to play my entire catalogue if I let my manager go out to dinner with him. She didn’t want to, and he insulted her. So he deserved the punch.”

“Sure he did.”

“Fan or stalker?”

She freezes, the lines between her eyebrows deepening. “Neither.”

“Right. So you just happened to knock on a random cabin door. In the woods. Where no one’s supposed to be. And surprise, surprise, it’s my cabin. This is totally out of the way, so you better have a damn good explanation.”

“I saw the smoke,” she says, wiping her hands on her shorts. “And I’m not here for you. I’m here because my van’s a piece of crap and I should have listened to my mom and sold it to the junk shop and now I have four crates of vintage records in the back.”

“Records?”

“Vinyl. You know, music? Thought you might’ve heard of it.” She shoots me a pointed look.

“You’re mouthy.”

She shrugs. “So I’ve been told.”

I step forward slowly. She doesn’t flinch. Impressive. Or reckless. Maybe both. “You’re heading where?”

“Mooncrest Music Fest. It’s five hours out, and I’ve already lost two.” Her hand drags through her hair, frustrated. It’s now pointing in different directions. “I’m supposed to set up a booth for my sister. Shit.”

I lean against the doorway, arms crossed. “Let me guess. You’re not a fan of mine, but you’re still gonna ask me for help because you think I’m a gentleman.”

“I know you’re not a gentleman.” Her eyes narrow. “I’m asking the person closest to civilization. Unfortunately, that’s you. I don’t have a lot of options.”

The burn in her tone isn’t fake. She really does hate me. Damn. She’s bold. I’m the only one who can help her, and she doesn’t even try to hide her disdain.

“You always this charming?” I ask.

“Only when I’m stranded and wet and miserable.”

She’s short, snarky, and clearly hates my guts. But she doesn’t look away when I meet her eyes.

She’s feisty for someone who doesn’t even come up to my chin.

There’s no agenda in her voice. Nothing that says she’s about to pull out her phone and start recording. It throws me. Most people want something. A photo. A story. An autograph. A smile.

She just wants her records to survive, so she can sell them.

I walk out to the porch, squinting at the sight of an ugly buttercup yellow minivan by the side of the road, smoke billowing out from the hood.

“How old’s that piece of junk?” I nod to the van.

“Old enough to have mood swings.”

I smirk. “Fine. I’ll look at it when the rain stops. But if you stab me and sell my organs, I’m gonna be really disappointed, and I’ll haunt you from the grave.”

She waves a hand. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve seen your chest and other body parts on TMZ. It’s not worth much, let me tell you that.”

Okay. Now she has my full attention. Just then, she shivers, arms crossed tight, goosebumps peppering her skin.

“For the record, that’s not very convincing.” I step back and hold the door open wider. “Get in before you drown on my porch.”

She steps past me with narrowed eyes, dripping water all over the wood floor. “Thanks for the warmth, reluctant host , but if YOU stab me and sell my organs, I’ll make sure you get electrocuted in your next concert.”

I shut the door with a sigh and gesture toward the fireplace. She doesn’t move, sizing up the cabin like it’s booby-trapped. Hell, maybe it is. I haven’t had company in … too long. So long in fact that my body has just realized we’re alone.

A beautiful woman and I. No, not just any beautiful woman. A beautiful woman with the fiercest gaze, most luscious curves, and big bullshit detector. A real package, this one.

“What’s your name?” I ask, moving toward the open luggage by the window, which I haven’t unpacked yet, grabbing a clean towel, an old band tee, and flannel pants.

She pulls something from her damp shorts and shakes it. Her driver’s license. She holds it out like a badge, her chin jutting out defiantly. Man, this chick is combative. How does one so small have such a big attitude?

I squint. “Vivian Lane, twenty-five years old. Huh. Cute photo. Your long hair looked good.”

She smiles the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. “And it’s cute that you think I care about your opinion. It’s any of your business because?”

“Maybe because I’m the one letting you drip all over my cabin.”

She rolls her eyes and snatches the license back. “Says the rock god who’s forgotten what decency looks like.”

“Excuse me?”

She shoves the license into her back pocket. “You should be nicer to your fans. You let them stand outside for hours just for a glimpse. My sister waited two. She came home with aching feet and blisters.”

I stare at her, both confused and horrified. I didn’t know.

“I get to the venue an hour before the concert,” I say slowly. “I never thought about what happens before.”

“Well, maybe you should.” Her tone’s sharp, but her voice is soft around the edges. It’s as though she didn’t expect me to take it personally.

Rain ticks on the windows. I glance down the short hallway, then back at her, handing her the towel and clean clothes.

“You’re soaked. Here, you can change in the bedroom. I only have one and a small bathroom.”

That’s when she pulls something from behind her back slowly, almost dramatically. A knife. A damn tiny thing.

“You try anything funny, I swear I’ll?—”

I bark out a laugh. It surprises both of us. Damn, I don’t remember the last time I laughed genuinely. “That thing couldn’t open a can of beans.”

“I’ll aim for your throat then.”

That gets a grin out of me. God, this woman. She has subjected me to a wide range of emotions in the past fifteen minutes. Has it been only fifteen minutes?

Vivian snatches the clothes and disappears into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her, not even bothering with a thank you.

I stand there, my brain finally getting the chance to catch up, wondering what the hell just happened.

The irritation from earlier? Gone.

Now there’s just this … odd thrum under my skin. A pulse I haven’t felt in too damn long. She’s not a fan. She doesn’t even like me. She’s only here because there’s no other option.

I don’t believe in fate or the higher power, but I can’t help the creeping feeling that maybe I’m supposed to be here just when she needed help.

My whole world tilts on its axis. I close my eyes and press my thumbs to my eyeballs.

My thoughts are careening off course. I’m supposed to stay here for a few weeks to recharge.

After two years of nonstop touring, I was beyond exhausted.

I couldn’t even keep my eyes open long enough to finish one song.

I had several appearances booked, but I just wanted to sleep.

Then there was the matter of zero privacy. Just because I was a public figure didn’t mean I was fair game. From fans trying to climb my terrace to those shoving their cameras in my face while I ate my lunch, it became too much.

I’ve been in this industry for over ten years, but at twenty-eight, I lost my passion for music. I can’t write, can’t even remember which note to play. My fingers shake as I play the guitar, and my voice sounds weird to my own ears.

I should be pissed at Vivian’s intrusion. After all, I’m still not one hundred percent sure this isn’t a ploy to find out things about me.

But … whatever.

If she’s pretending, then she’s the most talented actress in the world. Since she’s staying until the rain lets up, I, too, can pretend this is normal. That I’m a regular guy in a cabin with a regular girl.

Except there’s nothing regular about her.

Her eyes remind me of the forest surrounding us.

They don’t blink much or soften. And that mouth?

God, it should be illegal to look the way she does.

She only ever sassed me and scowled, but what I would give to have a taste of those full lips, to feel her walls crumble at my touch.

Ah, fuck.

I lace my hands behind my head, trying to put a lid on my libido, thinking of other things than her naked body in my bedroom. My skin flashes hot as unbidden images shuffle in my brain—her on my bed, that sassy mouth moaning my name, those toned legs around my waist.

Goddammit.

Primal need shoots through my bloodstream as dirty thoughts drift through my mind. I need to get a grip on myself. I am not a hormonal teenager about to get laid for the first time.

I’m a grown man who has been starved for so long. But no, it’s not just that. For years, one day bled into the next. I was in a dark place for so long that it felt like I just saw the sun shine.

I sink into the sofa, pulse loud in my ears, my palms sweaty, my cock straining against my pants. I’m like a boy with a crush and no damn clue what to do with it.