I tossed and turned most of the night trying to figure out what I could do to improve my impossible Ryan situation. I just had to be an adult. Be in control of my behavior. Not turn into a puddle of goo every time I got within a six-foot radius of him. I needed to steer clear of him and remember that there were so many red flags warning me not to date Ryan that he was basically Communist China.
I hoped maybe I could sublimate some of my want for him by doing physical exercise. Like running.
I’d taken up running after my mother’s diagnosis. Mostly because it helped me cope with the situation but also because if things like Alzheimer’s ran in my family, exercise and eating well were some of the best ways to stave it off. (Even if I didn’t quite have the eating-well part down yet.)
At about five thirty in the morning, I headed over to the private gym reserved for the crew. It was empty except for the electronic dance music playing loudly over the speakers. I hated EDM. It sounded like a computer having an epileptic fit. Fortunately, I’d brought my MP3 player, and I turned on some running music and stuck my earbuds in. I got on the treadmill and plotted a course of intermittent running with varying inclines. I really wanted to push myself today.
I got into the groove, rocking along to some of my favorite eighties songs and pouring all my excess energy and worry into the run. I closed my eyes, focusing on the feeling of my feet hitting the machine.
I was so caught up in this little world I’d created that when somebody tapped me on the shoulder, I lost my footing, and like something out of a YouTube video, I fell forward and smacked into the control panel and then onto the running belt. I felt my face make contact with it before I was thrown backward. I landed on my stomach, the wind totally knocked out of me.
Stunned, I rolled over on the floor and tugged my earbuds out, breathing hard.
Ryan hovered above me. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
I blinked a few times, wondering if my imagination had conjured him up. “I don’t think anything’s broken. I’m fine. But everything hurts.”
“Want me to kiss it better?” That’s when I knew it was actually him. My imagination Ryan would have offered me chocolate and sung me a song.
“I think I’m okay. But maybe I’ll just lie here for a little while.”
At that, his teasing expression faded. “Are you sure? Are you not telling me how bad things really are? I can take you to the hospital.”
“I’m fine,” I told him. “I’m not downplaying anything. Go work out.”
He hesitated, like he didn’t want to leave me. I waved him off, again telling him I was mostly okay.
“Is it bad that I’m hoping you don’t have any visible bruises? Because nobody is going to believe this is how you got them. Not exactly a good way to start our pretend relationship.”
Was he serious with this? “Yes, let’s make my humiliating injury all about you and your PR. Now shut up and go away before I give you some visible bruises.”
That seemed to do the trick. He moved a few feet away from me and faced the mirror behind us. I turned my head to see him stretching. He was spending a long time doing it. “You can stop. You’re the fairest of them all.”
He grinned. “You must be okay, given the amount of snark you’re currently throwing my way.” He selected a treadmill two places over from where I’d been running. He warmed up, running slowly, and then pushed some buttons to increase the intensity. I wiggled my toes, making sure I hadn’t broken my neck. While I tested each part of me for functionality, I realized Ryan had, to my great delight, removed his shirt.
He had a truly beautiful chest and back. I was fascinated by the way his muscles moved as he ran, expanding and contracting to the beat of his stride. He was so strong. Masculine.
Then I noticed something on the left side of his chest. I realized it was three tiny music notes. I looked in the mirror where his right side was reflected and saw what looked like a small triangle pointing up on his torso. On his left bicep was a single black stripe.
I’d never been a big fan of tattoos. But after seeing them on some of my favorite TV crushes, I had changed my mind a little. Given their location, you’d know Ryan had them only if he had his shirt off. It gave me a secret thrill that I was the one getting to see them.
Even if I’d nearly sustained a concussion to do it.
The fact that my brain was going in that direction was a clear indication that I needed to leave this room.
I was feeling better, so I got up slowly.
“Hey,” Ryan called out. He turned off his machine and came over. Gah. His chest was even better up close. I really wanted to do some personal exploration of those bumps and ridges. “Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?”
“Yep.” One-syllable word. That was what I could manage when faced with his glistening abs. Fantastic.
“I could walk you to your room.”
“No. Thanks.” I had to curl my fingers into a ball to prevent myself from touching him. My heart still beat too fast, but I attributed that to my mishap and not to my current visual stimuli.
“I didn’t get the chance to ask you last night, but our call time for the bus isn’t until eleven o’clock tonight. What would you think about going out on our first official fake date later on? I can come by your room at six.”
“’kay.”
“Great! I’ll see you then.”
Dazed, I nodded and turned to leave. I heard his treadmill start up as I headed for the door. I’d almost made it when I heard his voice.
“Hey, Maisy? For our date tonight, what do you prefer—shirt off or shirt on? Because it seems like you enjoy it off.” The jerk didn’t even sound winded as he ran, all smug and arrogant.
That I’d been ogling him hard enough to earn an award for it was completely beside the point.
The sound of his laughter followed me all the way into the hallway.
If he had not distracted me with his bare chest, I could have said no to tonight. Made up some excuse, like I was going to hang out with my brothers. I would have been just fine if Magic Mike had kept his shirt on. I would have stayed strong and remembered all the wise choices I’d made very early this morning.
Instead, I was all, Oh, Ryan, yes, let’s go out tonight, and please make me forget all my rules and plans. Tee-hee.
So much for the hope that physical activity would somehow lessen Ryan’s attractiveness.
As I turned on my shower and started to undress, I realized there probably wasn’t enough gym equipment in the entire world to make me forget how gorgeous Ryan De Luna was.
I wasn’t sure what to wear for our date and ended up calling Ashley’s room. After consulting with the other dancers, they decided on a little black cocktail dress that Britt brought down for me after I told them my size. Part of me wanted to be subversive and wear a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. But it was Ryan. If this was our first official pretend date, it would probably be somewhere swanky. I put on makeup as if I were about to go onstage and piled my long hair into a messy, but hopefully elegant, bun.
I packed all my belongings and dropped my suitcases in Parker’s room. He promised to have everything brought down to our bus. He didn’t seem particularly happy with my outfit choice, but I figured that meant I looked good.
When Ryan knocked on my door, I gulped down my nervousness and took in a deep breath. When I opened it, I was very glad I’d made the effort. He wore a black suit that had been tailored just for him. His hair was perfectly mussed, like he’d just rolled out of bed, and that combination of sophisticated and down-to-earth was more than my senses could process.
“You look . . .” His gaze traveled up and down my body almost like a physical touch. “Wow.”
I would not blush. I would not. “Thanks.”
“Shall we?” He gestured with his arm, and I joined him in the hallway. I noticed Fox and said hi to him, but he just nodded. It wasn’t going to be easy to get him to fall in love with Angie if he didn’t ever talk to me.
We rode the elevator in silence, and I tried not to stare at Ryan. Which wasn’t easy.
“We’re going out the front,” he said when the doors opened. “We want them to get pictures. I hope you’re ready for this.”
I wasn’t ready. When we walked through the doors, a crowd of teenagers erupted in hysterical screams around us. Only the security holding them back kept us safe. The constant flashes of light were blinding. Ryan put his arm around me and let Fox lead us to a waiting SUV. Ryan helped me climb into the back and then followed me in. The car door shut, and Fox got into the passenger seat in the front. I heard him say, “Drive.”
“That was insane,” I said, watching some of the girls chase us as the SUV pulled away quickly from the curb.
“Welcome to my life.” He said it in a mocking way, but I could hear the unspoken exhaustion in his tone.
“Where are we going?”
“I asked the concierge for a recommendation. Someplace where we could eat and listen to live music. No smoking allowed.”
It touched me that he remembered my preference. It struck me how closed-in the back seat felt. How much room he took up. I scooted closer to my door and looked out the window. Not that it did me any good. It was like Ryan had infected every molecule in the air with his yummy scent and overwhelming maleness.
“You’re sitting over there like you think I’m going to pounce on you.”
I was practically hugging the door. But I couldn’t tell him that the opposite was true—I was afraid I would pounce on him.
“I’m not the kind of guy who would take you out if I wasn’t willing to respect the boundaries you’ve set. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m very disciplined.”
That much I had noticed. “Anybody who could ignore that chocolate cake last night has to be disciplined.”
“I’ve never really been into chocolate.”
I blinked a few times, not certain I’d heard him correctly. “I’m not sure we can even be friends now.”
He laughed, and the sound loosened my limbs, allowing me to relax.
“I’ve found that I don’t really miss it.”
“Is that part of your clean-living thing?” Because if the price of remaining healthy was no more chocolate, you could count me out.
“It’s a lot of work to run around that stage night after night. If I don’t eat right and take care of myself, it takes too much out of me to perform. Trust me, I know.”
That reminded me of something Ashley had said. “I heard you used to be kind of a punk and into partying.”
And women. Lots and lots and lots of women.
A strobe light outside hit his window, outlining his strong profile. “Yeah. I was really selfish. I was late to shows and cared only about having a good time. I wasn’t an addict or anything, but I probably took things too far.”
“So what changed?”
“I wish I could say maturity, but I was at South by Southwest a few years ago. I was so late they brought out the next performer. I threw an absolute fit backstage when I finally showed up, furious that they’d bump someone of my status. Rick Jovan was standing there.”
That would be Rick Jovan, lead singer and guitarist for the rock band Jovanni.
“He told me to stop being disrespectful to my fans, who had given me their time and money. He said I was a cliché and a jerk and that I needed to grow up and act like a man. For some reason, that just clicked. It made something change inside me. Do you know what it’s like to find out that you’ve basically been a huge tool?”
“If it helps at all, I’ve known you were a huge tool for a long time.”
Ryan laughed at my teasing. “I decided not to take my life for granted. I love singing. I love performing. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize it.”
“I get that.” I was in that very boat. Only the thing that could jeopardize my future was this man, who I felt a strong, unsettling connection to. He knew things about me that I didn’t want anyone to know.
“We’re here,” Fox announced. We had pulled into an alley, and a man in a white button-up shirt and black pants held a door open.
The driver had parked the SUV close to the wall on my side, so I had no choice but to slide over and exit through Ryan’s door. Ryan waited for me, holding out his hand to help me down. I didn’t need his help, and while I was supposed to remember to be strong, I liked the feel of his hand enclosing mine.
Fox said he’d stay at the car with the driver and to call if we needed him.
“Mr. De Luna, welcome. Right this way.” The man at the door led us through the bright lights and stainless steel of the kitchen and into the club itself. It was decorated like a speakeasy from the early twentieth century—lots of red velvet and gold finishes. The club was dimly lit, and we were seated in a quiet booth away from the main-floor tables. It would allow us some privacy.
“This is very cool,” I told Ryan with a smile as I unfolded the napkin and placed it across my lap. It was so dark it was a little hard to see the menu. Ryan grabbed a pamphlet from the center of our table that listed the evening’s acts. “I think it says Louis something.”
Our waitress, also wearing a white top and black slacks, came to introduce herself and take our drink order. Both Ryan and I asked for water.
A spotlight turned on, pointed at the stage. A man walked out in a tuxedo and went to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the High Life. For your ear-tainment this evening, we have the Louisiana Trio.”
The club patrons applauded as the announcer left the stage. Blood rushed to my ears, blocking out everything else. My heart pounded frantically against my chest. Ice filled my lungs, weighing me down to my seat. I must have misheard.
When the curtain rose and I saw him, I realized I hadn’t misunderstood.
The jazz music began, and I stood, looking for the door we’d used to come in. I had to get out. Away from here. From him. I hadn’t had a full-blown anxiety attack in years, but it looked like I was about to. I was so light-headed I thought I might pass out. Small black pinpricks began to cloud the periphery of my vision.
“Maisy?” Ryan’s voice sounded far away, like he was calling to me from the bottom of a well.
“I have to . . . I have to . . .” My legs started to crumple.
Then his arm went around my waist, the other under my knees, and he swung me up into his arms. I think he carried me back through the kitchen and into the alleyway.
Had I not been basically incoherent at the time, I would have found this extremely hot.
Fox rushed over and opened the SUV door so Ryan could lift me into the car. It became easier to breathe as the blood returned to where it belonged and the air no longer felt too thin.
“Is she diabetic or hyperglycemic?” Fox asked.
“I don’t know,” Ryan answered, the frustration evident in his voice. “She did hit her head this morning. And she eats a lot of chocolate. I don’t think she’s diabetic.”
For some reason, that struck me as immensely funny, and I started to giggle.
“Maisy?”
“I’m okay,” I said, still trying to catch my breath. But the attack had passed. “Can we go somewhere else, please?”
At Ryan’s direction, the driver started the car and pulled out of the alley, back into traffic.
“What was that?” Ryan asked, the concern evident.
“That,” I told him with a sigh, “was my father.”