“W-what?” I sputter.
“You’re the pet sitter?” he asks, as if he doesn’t believe it. And then he shakes his head. “That was you? In the texts?”
“I told you. I’m the pet sitter. You own this house? That was you? In the texts?” I repeat his question.
He snorts and then shakes his head. “Figures.”
“What figures?” I’m still not able to process that Ryder Black—indie rock god, my foster brother’s former roommate, and my longtime, inconvenient crush—is standing before me.
But it really is him. He’s not some vivid fever dream. Ryder is still just as impossibly gorgeous as he was when I first met him ten years ago. Back then, he was a beautiful boy. Now, he’s a man. During my visits to see my brother in LA, I’ve noted this transition. How time hardened the prettiness of his features. His frame going from lean to powerful. His firm jaw is now permanently covered in a five o’clock shadow. He has a few more tattoos on his olive skin. But it’s his golden eyes that show the greatest change. They’re warier. Wearier, with slight lines edging them.
Ryder holds the now-squirming dog captive. “Your pet-sitting texts. Onlyyouwould be both confounding and flirtatious in what was supposed to be a simple daily dog photo.”
“Me? You weren’t exactly standoffish in your messages, Mr. Getting Busy in the Attic Room.”
He snorts.
“But I still don’t understand. This is your place?”
“Last time I checked.”
“How did I not know you have a mansion in Rockhaven, Massachusetts?”
He presses his lips together. “I haven’t owned it long. It’s my family’s house. My brother and I inherited it when my grandmother died a few months ago.”
My heart constricts. “Oh, Ryder. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Chase didn’t say anything.”
“It’s fine,” he says, looking away uncomfortably. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about it.
I sift through all I know of Ryder. “But this is the Vanders’ estate. Your last name is Black.” I shake my head. “Blackmoor,” I say, remembering he shortened it for his stage name.
“This was my maternal grandmother’s. They’re Vanders.”
“And quite rich, apparently. How very WASPy of you. But Emma didn’t tell me I was pet-sitting for you.”
“And Emma didn’t tellmeshe hiredyou.” His gaze tracks over my body, lingers, and then returns to my face. He clears his throat. “My assistant quit unexpectedly, so Emma was helping me out. I asked her to arrange a pet sitter for Archie. I found him in Chicago while I was on tour three months ago. He became our unofficial band mascot. But once the tour ended, I’ve barely been home, so I had to leave him here with Mrs. Halle.”
“But why here? Why not LA?”
“If I were still living with your brother and Sebastian in Malibu, it would be different. There was always someone around who could take care of him. But I’m in a penthouse now. It isn’t suited for a dog. I figured he’d be happier here. Mrs. Halle dotes on him.”
“Emma didn’t tell you I was the one she hired?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t understand why she didn’t tell us.”
“Who knows? It’s Emma. She always has a reason for what she does.” He looks at me with concern. “Why are you even here, taking a pet-sitting job? Who’s watching your store?”
God, I hate this part about failing—when I have to tell everyone that I’ve screwed up yet another thing. And especially in front ofhim.
I can kind of understand why Emma didn’t tell me I’d be pet-sitting for Ryder. She knows my pride wouldn’t let me take this position, that I wouldn’t want to admit to him that I was jobless.
When I dare to glance up, our eyes meet. Butterflies take flight in my stomach, and heat seeps through my veins. His gaze is sharp, assessing, as if trying to read my mind, seeking all the secrets I’m afraid to tell him.
Even after all this time, no matter how casual I pretend to be, one look from him can strip my defenses. Just like the first day I met him. At that moment, I would forever draw a line.
There was before.
