“More than okay.”
He smiles, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Good.” His thumb traces gentle patterns on the back of my hand. “We’re going to take this one day at a time. You focus on healing, and I’ll be right there, taking care of you. Then you can get back to doing what you do best.”
“And after that?”
“After that...” He leans in, resting his forehead gently against mine. “...we continue to live out our own story.”
It’sanother week before they release me from the hospital. My ribs still ache and the bruises have turned a sickly yellow-green, but at least I can move without feeling like someone’s stabbing me with every breath.
After I woke up and the fog lifted, my jumbled memories slowly started to adjust, becoming a more clear, coherent timeline.
While I never actually got knocked on my ass arguing on the phone with my agent, my brain inexplicably wandered down that path. Turns out my brain twisted what really happened with me getting hit by the car and a meeting I had with my agent about a month before I came to Lakeside.
Of course, Ryder never magically appeared in my house that morning. His truck, motorcycle, and clothes didn’t actually materialize out of thin air. There was no book-boyfriend come to life, no fictional character stepping into my reality.
I’d been working on a fantasy novel about a romance writer whose fictional hero comes to life—that’s where all my confusion stemmed from. The line between fiction and reality blurred when my brain was injured and they induced a coma. The doctor told me what I experienced is a known side effect of the drugs they use.
What actually happened was even better.
While I was in my coma, Ryder told me stories about our adventures—what happened at the hot spring, the day he took me to the seaside restaurant on his motorcycle and he told me about his past, our sexy trip to the bookstore and what went down after, and the camping trip where I learned even more about him—real memories.
We even acted out some of my ideas so I could make sure they were something that could work in my book—like hide and seek.
And Ryder’s backstory? All his scars, inside and out, those are real, too. Very real.
And yes, Eric is real. Unfortunately. I’m so thankful Ryder showed up when he did.
The way Ryder and I connected was the real magic. How quickly we fell into each other’s lives, how naturally we fit together—a whirlwind romance I couldn’t have written better myself.
How he changed my flat tire in the pouring rain. How his jacket, smelling of sandalwood and rain, swallowed me whole. How he asked about what brought me to Lakeside and how he didn’t flinch when I told him I wrote smutty romance. How my tattoo consultation turned into coffee, which turned into dinner, which turned into... us.
The smutty romance writer and the sexy, tattooed man who stopped to help a stranger in the rain.
epilogue
NOIA
One month later...
“Ready or not, here I come...”
I bite my lip to stifle a giggle when I hear Ryder’s footsteps overhead, each heavy step making the old floorboards creak. My heart races as I curl tighter into the cabinet beneath the kitchen island, knees pressed to my chest. It’s cramped in here, but worth it to see the look on his face when he finally finds me.
“Kitten,” he calls, his voice deep and playful. “Where are youhiiiiding?”
I press my palm against my mouth, fighting back another laugh. After three weeks of healing, my ribs have finally stopped hurting when I breathe, and we’ve been celebrating my recovery in every delicious way possible.
The footsteps stop. I imagine him standing still, listening for any telltale sounds. Then they start again, moving toward the stairs.
“I’m coming for you,” he sings, his voice growing closer. “And when I find you...”
The threat hangs in the air, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. My body tingles with anticipation, primed for what will happen when he finally discovers me.
His boots hit the bottom of the stairs, and I hold my breath. Through the small crack where the cabinet doors meet, I can see his feet as he moves through the living room, checking behind the couch and inside the coat closet.
“I know you’re not upstairs,” he muses aloud to himself. “Obviously there’s no place to hide in the living room...”
I hear him open the door to the walk-in pantry, rummaging through it. Pretty sure he’s trying to find another secret hiding spot. I’ve refused to tell him where they are just for this reason.
