Page 2 of The Rockstar

“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 nowpointing 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.

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