Page 7 of The Rockstar

“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 Irefuse 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’sbeen 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.

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