I shiver. Is this my life now? Fearing everyone and everything?
Chris gives me a questioning look. I nod in response, and he allows Ryder to open the box and peer inside.
Ryder nods after what seems like an eternity of inspection, and I’m given permission to approach. I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him as I pass.
Chris sidles up to me and whispers, “You in some kind of trouble?”
“I hope not,” I murmur back. “Ryder’s just here to keep me safe.”
Chris nods. “Good.” He moves to the box and turns it toward me, pride written across his weathered features. “What do you think?”
I examine the antique mirror revealed before me.
The mirror itself is slightly cloudy and will need replacing if I decide to use it, but the frame catches my eye and likely caught Chris’s, too. It’s wooden, I think, intricately carved and gilded. Tiny, delicate details adorn the frame. I run my hand over it, enjoying the complex craftsmanship.
“It’ll need some work,” I tell Chris.
“I know, I know. But it’s good, right? High quality.”
I nod. “Yes.” It’s beautiful. I might even get it for myself.
Chris and I haggle over the price before shaking hands. I pick up the box. Damn, it’s heavy.
Ryder appears next to me, taking the box under his arm. He doesn’t even seem to strain. “I’ll carry this for you.”
I stand there, staring at him. His arm muscles bulgebeneath his shirt, and my face heats. It’s been two weeks since I broke up with Arlo, and even before that, our sex life wasn’t exactly passionate. My body is on high alert.
Ryder stops. “You’re coming with me to put this in the car, if that wasn’t clear. You can’t stay here alone.”
“Oh. Right.” I hurry after him, my mind still stuck on those arms and what they could do.
“Are we done?” Ryder asks, his voice tight with barely concealed tension after he stowed my package in the trunk.
The flea market bustles around us, a cacophony of voices and colors that make me feel more alive than I have in weeks.
I turn to him, taking in the rigid set of his shoulders and the way his eyes scan our surroundings. A pang of guilt threatens to dampen my mood, but I push it aside.
“We’re not done,” I say, flashing him a smile. “That was just the first stall.”
Ryder’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “We need to leave,” he says. “It’s not safe here.”
My smile widens, a thrill running through me at the challenge in his voice. “No fucking way,” I reply, squaring my shoulders. “Love is in the little details, and I’m the queen of details.”
Without waiting for his response, I turn on my heel and dive back into the sea of stalls. The market is a treasure trove of possibilities, each booth holding potential gems for my clients. I flit from one to another, my fingers trailing over vintage fabrics, antique jewelry, and weathered books.
At one stall, I find a set of hand-painted plates that would be perfect for Mrs. Vanderbilt’s garden party. I engage the vendor in animated conversation, negotiating the price. Laughter bubbles up from my chest, light and carefree.
I glance over at Ryder, catching him staring at me with anintensity that makes my breath catch. For a split second, I see something in his eyes—a warmth, a longing that mirrors my own hidden desires. But then it’s gone, replaced by his usual stoic professionalism.
Sighing, I turn away. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out.
My stomach drops, ice flooding my veins. The bustling market fades away, replaced by a roaring in my ears. I can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think.
“What’s wrong?” Ryder’s voice seems to come from far away.
He pries the phone from my trembling hands and reads out loud.
Anonymous
