“I know.” He looks at me intently. “My turn,” he says. “Why romance novels?”
“That’s your question? Really?”
He shrugs. “I want to know why you chose to write about love when you’re so terrified of it yourself.”
The question hits deeper than I expected it to. I sink lower into the water, letting the heat seep into my bones while I consider how to answer.
“Because in books, love always wins,” I finally say. “The hero shows up and fights for the heroine. He doesn’t just... disappear.”
“Like Eric did.”
I nod, throat tight. “In my books, the guy who says he loves you won’t leave you behind in a thousand-dollar dress while three hundred people wait as your life implodes all around you.”
Ryder’s expression turns dark. “Tell me about him.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to understand what kind of asshole has the balls to break someone like you.”
He says those words like I’m something precious that shouldn’t have been damaged, and it makes my heart skip a beat.
“He was... perfect on paper,” I admit. “Good job, nice family. My mom loved him at first. My agent really loved him. Hell, even Goonie tolerated him, which is saying something.”
“But?”
I trace patterns in the water with my hands. “But he never looked at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”
Ryder goes still. “How am I looking at you?”
“Like you can see straight into my soul. Like you actually want to be here with me.” Our gazes lock. “Eric always seemed like he was somewhere else, even when we were together. Like I was just another item on his to-do list.”
“Fuck him,” Ryder says, the venom in his tone soft and lethal.
“Want to know the worst part? I knew. Deep down, I knew he wasn’t the one. But I convinced myself that fairy tale love was just fiction. That settling for someone who showed up and paid half the bills was enough.”
“You’re terrified of love, aren’t you, kitten?”
“I’m not terrified of love,” I protest weakly.
“Bullshit,” he counters. “You write these incredible, passionate love stories where people risk life and limb for each other. But in real life? You were going to marry some guy who didn’t even bother to show up.”
“Eric wasn’t—” He’s right. Eric was safe. Predictable. The kind of guy who remembered to put the toilet seat down and never surprised me with anything more adventurous than maybe a new flavor of yogurt.
“He wasn’t what?” Ryder presses, sliding even closer.
“He wasn’t you,” I whisper, the words falling from my lips before I can stop them.
The admission hangs in the steamy air. Ryder goes still, gray eyes searching my face.
“What do you mean, he wasn’t me?” he asks, floating closer.
My laugh comes out shaky. “I mean, he wasn’t passionate or dangerous. He was... comfortable. And after my dad died and my mom went through her whole breakdown, comfortable felt like enough.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“No,” I answer, the word barely audible. “It wasn’t. I kept waiting to feel something—anything—for him. But every time he touched me, I just felt... empty.”
Ryder is close enough now that I can see the water droplets clinging to his dark eyelashes. “And when I touch you?”
