But I don’t seem to be the only awkward one. Thank goodness.
Ryder shuffles his feet. And rubs his neck. I love that move. He does it when he’s tense. It’s his tell. Plus, it pops the veiny muscles of his forearms, which are very sexy. “I, um, have to go. I have a video meeting with the label and my team about the international leg of my tour.” His eyes meet mine. “The first show is in Paris in a month. My manager is already yelling at me to get my ass back to LA to prepare. I have rehearsals starting soon, and then there are the Music Awards, which I have to be back for.”
He’s leaving soon. And that will be our expiration date. “You have seven nominations, right? And album of the year?”
“Yes.”
“That’s amazing, Ryder. So amazing.”
He tips his head, and I wonder if that pink tingeing his cheeks is out of embarrassment or if it’s just from the sun.
“I have to go as well. Gotta transform into Donatella Versace and dream up some dresses,” I say with false bravado.
“All you have to be is Daisy Lane.”
And there goes my stomach, like it’s on a Tilt-A-Whirl.
I nod awkwardly—so many awkward nods in this conversation. I make a move to go. But Ryder catches my arm and twirls me back to him. It’s a move worthy of Gene Kelly. Must be his boy-band training making a surprising reemergence.
“We had our first date.”
“We did,” I whisper.
“So don’t I get a kiss?” he asks gruffly.
It’s broad daylight. I’m sticky with ice cream and the long walk in the sun. My hair is a windblown wreck. I may or may not have a wine-spritzer stain on the crochet lace of my dress. There are bodyguards and workmen somewhere near.
But when his mouth descends, it all just disappears, and only one thing matters.
He’s mine and I’m his. At least for this kiss. All the days when I doodled Daisy + Ryder in my notebook, closed my eyes, and thought of what it would be like for him to ask me on a date. To kiss me as he brought me home.
I’m there.
Perhaps it’s not exactly as I imagined. Maybe there are more doubts. More confusion and contradiction.
But in so many ways, it’s also better than I ever could have dreamed.
Because it’s real.
He kisses me softly, expertly, over and over, and then with more force. I’m lost to the taste of him, the way his tongue slides over mine, the way we break apart, then come together, deeper, longer, each time.
He groans and shifts away. We’re both panting. He brackets my face with his hands, pushing my curls away, cupping my chin with his calloused fingers, and then burying his hands in my hair.
“I’ve wanted to do that all day, Daisy.”
“Then you better do it again,” I say on a gasp when he obliges.
I go on tiptoes, and I bring my arms up and wrap them around his neck. He has to bend over to accommodate me. My nipples harden as they’re pressed against his chest. He grabs my ass with his large hands and pulls me up so that I can feel just how much I affect him. And I can’t help but push back, trying to assuage the ache between my legs.
“Ahem.”
I jump away, but Ryder pulls me toward his body. We’re no longer kissing. Yet he’s holding me with tight possession.
He looks up. “Yes, Duncan,” he says, sounding annoyed. He plays with one of my curls that falls to my chest. His finger is dangerously close to my nipple. I hold back a whimper.
“Sorry for interrupting, sir. But your brother has driven back to Boston. He said to tell you he’ll return on the weekend to meet with the contractors about rebuilding the pool house and damaged roof. He also said, and I quote, that you better get your head out of your ass and make your mind up about the house soon.”
“Thank you, Duncan,” Ryder says, but his focus is on brushing the hair off my neck.
