CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Chloe
It’s not my best work. Far from it. But I can’t seem to muster any enthusiasm for the article. Not after the way Ryder looked at me downstairs.
For a moment, I was sure he was going to tell me he had feelings for me. But that would have been ridiculous, right? Just because I’m a hopeless romantic with a trashy novel problem doesn’t mean that anything I’m feeling is real.
No matter how real it feels.
I give what I’ve written another pass and, with a sigh, click over to the novel I’m working on for a little break before my dinner arrives. I’ve already added in some of the sex scenes based on everything I’ve learned with Ryder, but now it’s missing the one thing that I know will bring the story to life.
Heart.
With a deep breath, I dive in and let myself write uncensored. The words spill out. Where I would usually struggle and stumble over the connection between the hero and heroine, the wordsflow easily. I channel every single thing I felt with Ryder over the last few days. No matter what happens between us, I know that, at least for me, what I feel for him was—is—real.
I’m so lost in my writing that I almost don’t hear the knock.
When I open the door, I’m bleary-eyed and in a daze the way I often am after an intense writing session, so I’m surprised to see Ryder standing there with a tray. It takes me a moment to realize why he’s there.
“Oh,” I say. “You brought dinner.”
“I told you I would.”
He has that sexy smirk on his face, and despite my confused feelings, I feel myself melting for him.
“Did I catch you in the middle of something?”
“I was writing.” I shake my head. “Sometimes I get a little caught up in it.” Aware that I’m still standing in the doorway, I push the door open and stand back. “Come in. I just need to freshen up a little.”
Before he can say anything, I disappear into the adjoining bathroom. It’s been awhile since I’ve experienced the writing fog; normally I’m by myself, so it’s no big deal. But with Ryder there, I need to snap out of it.
It takes me a few minutes. I splash water on my face and run a brush through my hair. Finally, I feel more myself, so I switch off the light and rejoin Ryder in the main room.
He’s sitting in front of my laptop, an unreadable expression on his face when I enter.
“What are you?—”
“Is this your book?”
I nod and cross my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling a little vulnerable.
“It’s really good,” he continues. “Is it about…”
I’m already shaking my head when he finishes his question.
“Us?”
“No.” I practically shout the word. It’s a protective reflex and a total lie. Of course the book is about us. Every single detail, especially the part where I admit how I’ve fallen completely in love with him after only a few days, is completely based on Ryder and me. But I can’t tell him that. Not when he doesn’t feel the same. I may not have much, but I have my pride.
“Really?” He looks up from the screen and scans my face. “Because it seems?—”
“It’s fiction, Ryder.” It causes me physical pain to say it. But I don’t have a choice. “That’s what novels are,” I continue, forcing the emotion out of my voice. “Made up. Nothing more.”
“Chloe, I?—”
“Seriously, Ryder.” I force myself to chuckle. It’s an awful sound. “I appreciate your help with the research and all, but it’s just a story. Nothing more.”
He opens his mouth to say something but thankfully closes it again before standing up and rubbing his hands on his jeans.
