Page 6 of The Rockstar

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.

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?”

---