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Silence settles in as we go about our tasks. It’s not awkward or uncomfortable, as if we’ve been sharing this kitchen for years. I’m confused and disoriented by how safe I feel around him. He’s a man, he’s strong, and I’m alone. But none of my internal alarms ring.

We sit at the wooden table and eat mostly in silence.

“Thanks,” he says.

The word is so unexpected that my eyebrows reach my hairline. “For what?”

“For not … snapping a photo or asking for one.”

Laughter bubbles up without permission. “You think this counts as respecting your privacy? I showed up uninvited and dripping wet and all but demanded your help.”

“That’s not invasion,” he says, mouth twitching into a sad smile. “I’ve seen the real thing. You’re not it. Besides, no phone out, no camera. That counts.”

A teasing grin surfaces. “What makes you think I’m not wearing a wire?”

His eyes skim down once, dropping briefly to my chest, up to my mouth, and back to my eyes. His gaze scorches a trail across my skin, and my breathing stutters to a stop. “Because your wet shirt from earlier wouldn’t hide anything bigger than a candy.”

Wait, what? My fork stills mid-air. So does his. No one speaks. The air pulses, charged and fragile. He was checking me out? He doesn’t say anything else, but I don’t miss the ticking in his jaw and the flaring of his eyes, as if he’s surprised by his own admission.

In an attempt to do something, I reach for the salad bowl at the same time he does. Our fingers graze, skin on skin. It’s barely a brush, but the jolt is immediate, almost like static but deeper.

A shot of awareness zips down my spine and settles low in my belly, heavy, tugging, clenching, and warm. Ryder doesn’t pull back. His hand lingers just a second too long as our eyes meet.

Too much unsaid crackles in the quiet.

He stands abruptly. “Can you take care of the dishes? I need to see your car and see if we can fix it.”

“But it’s already dark. Maybe first thing tomorrow?”

“I need to see it. Do you have your keys with you?”

“Ryder, is everything okay?”

He waves me off distractedly, but his skin is flushed. “Yeah, fine. I’m no expert mechanic, but I may know what got busted.”

I don’t argue with him anymore since he seems keen to escape. Fine. It was a weird, tension-filled moment. I hand him the keys, and he bolts.

Thirty minutes later, I’m done with the dishes and sitting on the couch. There’s no TV or computer, but I spot a couple of paperbacks in his luggage.

If I was surprised he was a reader, I’m even more taken aback by his choice of books. Horror, police procedurals, and psychological thrillers.

Well, look at you, Mr. Cross. We finally have something in common … well, kind of.

It’s taking him so long, so I decide to follow him and force him back. It won’t do well to leave him by the roadside, where anyone can stop and see him. He can take care of himself, sure, but I can’t take that risk. I won’t repay him by putting him in danger. Besides, the rain has finally let up.

Moonlight and mist cling to the trees as damp grass crunches under my still-wet sneakers. Absolutely disgusting to wear, but I refuse to go barefoot. I might step on a snake and die on the spot. Uncomfortable is better than dead.

The scent of pine and faint gasoline floats in the air. Ryder is hunched under the minivan’s open hood, flashlight balanced in the crook of his shoulder, muscles flexing with every small movement.

God, can he stop being sexy for one minute? I always think one thing and see him, and I end up thinking another.

“Need help making it worse?” Arms crossed, I lean against the side, eyeing him, watching his profile.

Hmm, up close, those Ryder photos don’t do him justice, not even one bit.

In person, he’s not just ‘hot’ or ‘attractive’.

He’s magnetic, and I feel drawn to him in unimaginable ways. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Spent two summers at an auto shop,” he says without looking up, tightening something with practiced ease.

“Then why didn’t you check this earlier? You know, when there was still a bit of light and your rockstar hands weren’t freezing?”

He stiffens, just slightly, and pauses. “Not sure why I did most of what I did today,” he says. “So many things don’t make sense. I saw you, and somehow, my brain stopped working.”

The words land between us, weighty and bare. Something shifts, and it’s like a warm pair of arms wrapping around me.

His head turns slowly. Blue eyes find mine beneath the dim flashlight beam, shadow and light cutting across his face like jagged edges.

My breath catches, and wet heat blooms between my thighs.

There’s something barely restrained in his stare.

He’s been polite and respectful, but it’s like he now has a very light hold on his self-control.

He closes the space between us in three steps. The closer he gets, the more my breathing turns ragged.

“You drive me crazy,” he says, voice rough and gravelly. “Mouthy, sharp, suspicious of everything I say.”

“S-sounds like you’re listing my good traits.”

He leans closer until my back is against the passenger side window, his one arm braced on the roof. Heat rolls off him in waves as he boxes me in. “Not denying it, I see.”

His warm breath coasts over my cheek, and I stop breathing. I search his face, but the light is behind him. I only feel him.

This is wrong on so many levels, and I can list down why I’ll only regret whatever happens next.

He’s a world-famous rockstar, and I’m ONLY a secondhand bookstore owner.

He can command an audience, and I hate being the center of attention.

Millions of fans follow everything he says or does, and that’s the last thing I want for myself. I like my peace, thank you very much.

This will be a one-time thing for him, but I’ll likely spend the rest of my days replaying it in my head. He’ll ruin every other guy for me.

He can move on from me, but I can’t do the same. I’ll be too attached.

I’m still mentally debating with myself when the tension snaps.

His hands are on my waist. The shock of it steals my breath. But before I can even inhale, his mouth crashes into mine, hungry, hot, and demanding.

Now I have something else to tell Valerie. Ryder is a damn good kisser, the best.

His fingers tighten at my hips. My hands rise without thinking, fists bunching in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him close because I can’t get enough. He presses me closer to the van, and I arch into him, looping my arms around his neck.

Light drizzle clings to my hair, slicks my skin, and chills my spine, but his body is fire, and it’s everywhere, demanding attention, burning every part of me.

His mouth slants over mine again, deeper this time. Slower. Teasing. A flick of his tongue makes me gasp, and he uses it, swallows the sound, and tangles his tongue with mine.

Dear Lord. It’s the kind of kiss I used to dream about. The kind that makes me lose my mind and my toes curl. The hollow ache between my legs becomes more pronounced, and I realize a little late that I’m already rubbing against his crotch, the hardening tent in his pants.

When he pulls back, barely an inch, his breath fans my lips. “I wanted to do that since I laid eyes on you.”

“Just a kiss?” I whisper, voice unsteady, my heart about to burst. “Nothing more?”

He exhales a laugh, forehead resting against mine, tension vibrating between us like a taut wire stretched too far. The flashlight drops to the ground, but neither of us moves to pick it up. “You want more?”

I think about the list, about all the reasons why this is the mother of all bad ideas. But they all crumble into dust when he slips a finger under the waistband of my pants, the pad of his finger rubbing against my lower belly slowly, seductively.

With all the courage I can muster, I stare at him. “I want more.”