"You're a surprisingly good teacher," I tell him, breaking off a piece of blueberry muffin.
"You're a surprisingly fast learner. For someone who thought we played with balls."
"I'm never living that down, am I?"
"Never." But his expression softens. "This is nice. Talking without—" He gestures vaguely. "—all the pressure."
"You mean without your agent breathing down your neck about marketability?"
"Among other things." He's quiet for a moment, working through a thought. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why did you really come to Ashwood Falls? I know about the viral breakup, but Anchorage has plenty of places to hide. Why here specifically?"
I pause, muffin halfway to my mouth. I've been telling everyone it's for authentic content, for the rebrand, for the wilderness aesthetic. But sitting here with Ryder's grey eyes watching me patiently, I find myself telling the truth.
"Because I needed to disappear," I say quietly. "Not just from social media or my ex. From the person I'd become. The performing, the constant content creation, the girl who measured her worth in engagement rates and follower counts." I trace the rim of my mug. "I thought if I came somewhere with bad WiFi and no one who knew me, I could figure out who Piper Meadows actually is when she's not performing for a camera."
"And? Have you figured it out?"
"I'm getting there." I meet his eyes. "Turns out the real me is someone who screams at moose, can't start fires, gets lost on marked trails, and fake dates grumpy hockey players to rebuild her brand."
"You're also someone who deleted all your footage from my game because you thought it was more important to just watch. Who negotiated five smart rules for this arrangement to protect both of us." His voice drops lower. "You're more real than you give yourself credit for."
My throat tightens. "Ryder?—"
"We should probably practice," he says.
"Practice?"
"Couple behavior. Physical affection." He stands, extending his hand. "Come here."
I take his hand and let him pull me up, suddenly very aware that we're in a public café where Marnie is absolutely watching us over her coffee cup.
"What are we practicing?" I ask.
"This." He steps closer, and suddenly there's barely any space between us. His hand settles on my waist, light but possessive, and the other comes up to cup my jaw. "We need to look comfortable together. Like we've done this before."
My breath catches. "We have done this before. In the driveway before Morris?—"
"But we didn't actually kiss." His thumb brushes my cheekbone, and I'm definitely not breathing normally anymore. "People are going to expect us to be comfortable with intimacy. Casual touches. Kisses goodbye. That kind of thing."
"So this is—this is practice."
"Just practice." But the way he's looking at me doesn't feel like practice. It feels like he's memorizing my face, like every point of contact between us matters.
I should step back. Remind him of rule four: keep things professional. But my hands have apparently decided to betray me because they're sliding up his chest, feeling solid muscle under flannel and thermal.
"Your heart's racing," he murmurs.
"So is yours."
"Yeah." His forehead drops to rest against mine, and we're sharing breath now, sharing space, and this is definitely not professional. "Piper?—"
"This is fake," I whisper, the words barely audible. "Remember? We're just practicing."
"Right. Practicing." But he's not pulling away, and neither am I.
