Page 2
VIVIAN
I ’m shaking like a leaf.
Of all the cabins in all the remote woods in all the damn world, I had to break down in front of his. Ryder Cross. Rockstar. World’s hottest man for two years. Multiple Grammy awards. Sold-out concerts. Swankiest cars. Most expensive homes in different post codes.
And I showed up in my most basic ensemble, wet and shivering, on his doorstep.
Mom’s voice nags in the back of my head. “That van is going to give out one day, Vivian, mark my words.”
Well, she can mark them all she wants, because this van is mine.
Ours . Dad and I spent an entire summer under its hood, fixing every creaky inch together (well, he fixed it and I just handed him the tools while keeping him entertained), painting the sides with sunflowers and cacti.
He gave me the keys on my seventeenth birthday, grinning from ear to ear with grease on his cheek.
I’m not just going to give her up because her engine hiccuped in the middle of nowhere.
Just my luck, too, that Dad’s currently halfway across the country visiting his childhood friend.
I shove my wet hair from my forehead and wipe the moisture from the mirror, looking at the bags under my eyes, the lack of color on my face, and what my beloved sister, Valerie, calls my overall ‘sickly Victorian child’ aesthetic.
Less than twenty-four hours till the festival. If I don’t make it there in time, Valerie will kill me, and half her inventory—vintage records she has collected and restored herself—will be for nothing. I promised her I’d help, but here I am stuck with the hottest guy on the planet.
No cell service either. I already tried walking up the road with my phone raised. Nothing. Dead bars.
Which is why I ended up knocking on his door. It wasn’t the wisest decision I’d ever made, and I had to psyche myself up repeatedly, fully prepared to deal with a serial killer or a psycho who has an entire collection of animal bones in one of his rooms.
But it’s just Ryder Cross. JUST THE RYDER CROSS.
I hate to admit it, but I get it now. I really do.
Okay, look. I’ve seen pictures of him, album covers, music videos. I even watched an interview once where he gave three-word answers to everything and smirked, and the entire audience went bananas. I wasn’t impressed.
But in real life?
Up close, Ryder Cross is ... god-tier hot. Unfairly so.
He was wearing a thin white tee that forced my eyes to his hard chest, black sweatpants, and those full-sleeve tattoos were on full display. His body is all lean muscle and corded veins. Does he have a personal trainer, or is that all from carrying his guitar and ego around?
And the eyes. Blue, piercing, intense. The kind that sees right through you and makes you want to square your spine even when you’re freezing and soaked through. It’s not even as if I wanted to impress him.
I hate that he looks this good. I hate that my first instinct is to notice it. I hate that my body is hyper aware of his, my hormones currently throwing a parade in his honor, my lady parts tingling at his presence.
Valerie will have two reasons to kill me—the vinyl records and Ryder Cross.
My twenty-year-old sister is one of his biggest fans.
She plastered life-size posters of him all over her room, buys every record he releases, keeps track of his TV appearances, and basically purchases whatever product has his name on it, including, unfortunately, men’s shaving cream.
Imagine how she’ll react if she finds out we’re alone here.
Again, whatever. I can’t hide in the bathroom for too long, so I dry myself and pick up the clothes he lent me.
The clothes are too big—gray flannel bottoms and a cotton tee with a tiny hole near the hem and a very loose neckline—but it's warm and dry and smells exactly like him. I hate it.
I roll the waistband twice and push up the sleeves before stepping out of the bedroom, hoping I don’t run into him again.
But of course, there he is. Ryder Freaking Cross, barefoot, sprawled on the couch, a book open in his tattooed hands.
A cup of something warm steams from the coffee table in front of him. No, there are two steaming cups now.
I clear my throat and shift on my feet. “You read?”
He doesn’t look up. “I do, but don’t let it ruin the image you have of me.”
“Huh.” I fold my arms, ignoring how the shirt drapes off one shoulder. “Didn’t peg you as the reading type. I mean, I saw the AD feature on your house, but I thought the whole library floor was pretentious, and the books were there for decoration.”
He finally glances up, one brow cocked, mouth tugging into a crooked, unimpressed smirk. “Not surprising. But maybe tone down the judgment. You’ve been coming at me sideways since you showed up.”
I walk closer, ignoring the shame at his observation, and grab the mug. Black coffee, thank God. “Hard not to, considering my sister won’t shut up about you. Sends me clips, articles, every tour date, the latest woman on your arm. I’m not even a fan.”
“That why you hate me?” His tone is even, but something in his eyes flickers.
“I don’t hate you. That’s ... dramatic and immature. I can’t hate someone I don’t personally know.” I sip, letting the heat settle in my chest. “I just don’t like what you represent.”
He closes the book and tosses it onto the table, his attention fully on me now. “Which is?”
“The privilege. The way you act like the world owes you just because you’re famous. Like you can’t be bothered to be nice or decent.”
He chuckles, but there’s no trace of humor in it. “You do realize that’s the image the label wants me to sell, right?”
Well, shit.
For the first time since meeting him, I’m at a loss for words, thrown for a second. It never even crossed my mind.
“I’m a rockstar. I sing about rebellion, authority being bullshit, rage, and chaos.
You think they want me photographed helping old ladies cross the street?
You think ‘nice guy’ gets tickets sold?” His voice softens, not with gentleness, but with something tired.
“What you see is a product. Ryder Cross TM. The angry, reckless asshole who doesn’t have a heart, but maybe you fans can fix him.
Maybe one of you girls is the special one who can change him.
See, Vivian? That’s by design. You even bought it, didn’t you? ”
I sit down on the brown leather chair across from him, not even realizing I’ve moved until I feel the cushion under me.
The heat from the coffee seeps through my palms, but it’s not enough to explain the warmth in my chest. “Still, you didn’t have to bring me inside or give me clothes or make me coffee. ”
He shrugs, but his gaze lingers. “Like I said. You’ve got me all figured out.”
The thing is, I don’t. And I don’t know what’s more unsettling: that I’m realizing it, or that I suddenly want to.
I have never met a famous person, unless you count our local celebrity who appeared on MasterChef but was eliminated in the first episode.
It doesn’t sit right with me that I’ve acted like I knew Ryder because of his public persona.
If someone did that to me, while I gave them shelter, I’d be pissed as hell.
Ryder’s eyes stay on me. It makes me squirm and straighten at the same time. My heart drums against my ribs, and my pulse pounds between my thighs.
Am I … getting turned on? I can hardly be blamed, right? I may have disliked him, but I’m not made of stone, and Ryder oozes sexuality in every pore. He can sit there, not say or do anything, and I’d be a wet mess.
I need to get out of here before I do something I might regret. But I can’t go anywhere.
“This is a stupid question, but do you have a landline?”
Ryder shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry, but I’m off-grid. No phone, no internet. The only way they can reach me is by coming here or sending a raven.”
The chuckle rolling out of me is so unexpected that I snort, and the sound is so disgustingly funny that Ryder laughs. I try to hold it back, but end up laughing anyway.
I offer to cook because it’s something to do, and also because sitting here under his gaze with this weird pull between us is starting to fry my nerves.
He stretches lazily across the couch, tattooed arms draped over the backrest, bare feet propped on the coffee table, looking so comfortable like he hasn’t just let a stranger into his cabin.
A stranger who could very well be a serial killer or a deranged fan.
“What do you do when you’re not stranded in the woods or talking trash to musicians? ”
I briefly consider lying because I’m not in the habit of sharing my life with virtual strangers, but it won’t be fair. “I run a secondhand bookstore.”
His brow arches in mild surprise. “Didn’t see that coming.”
I roll my eyes. “Who’s judgy now? Let me guess, you pegged me as a nomad with no direction.”
“Didn’t say anything.”
“But you thought it.”
“You look the part.”
Something about the flat honesty pulls an involuntary laugh from me. “Perfect. I’ll tell my sister you’re so aggressively average, she’ll delete her fangirl account. The one she uses to fight with your haters.”
He doesn’t smile this time. Just a flicker of something brittle behind those too-blue eyes. “Wish I was ordinary so people could forget about me even for just five minutes.”
That lands heavier than expected. The Ryder in videos always looks invincible, all-black ensemble, raspy voice, panty-melting smile. But this one, barefoot and quieter, is exhausted to the bone. Maybe he’s more hunted than worshipped.
I don’t have a response to that, so I busy myself preparing dinner. The rain hasn’t slowed down, but at least my van’s not smoking anymore.
The kitchen becomes a safe distraction. A few wilted greens, cherry tomatoes that have seen better days, and half a lemon.
It’s enough to pretend a salad. Meanwhile, Ryder seasons the chicken thighs, dips them in a wet mix, then dry, then wet, then dry, before he drops them one by one into the frying pan.