Page 5 of The Rockstar

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 onfull 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.”

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