His voice is filled with disbelief. “That’s my truck.”
I follow his gaze. A massive black pickup is sitting in my driveway. It wasn’t there when we pulled in—I’m certain of it.
“How—?”
But Ryder is already at the door.
I follow him out onto the porch, watching as he approaches the sleek black truck. It’s a beast of a machine—a black Ford F-150 with tinted windows and oversized tires, towering over my mid-sized SUV.
“This is my truck,” he says again, voice tinged with disbelief as he runs his hand along the hood. “My fucking baby.”
“There’s no way,” I gasp.
“But it is,” he insists. “I recognize every scratch, every dent.”
Ryder circles it slowly, trailing his fingers along the glossy paint. “The custom exhaust, the aftermarket rims I installed myself.” He peers through the driver’s side window. “Even the air freshener I hung from the rear view mirror.”
My voice is barely above a whisper when I finally speak. “I never wrote about any of that.”
When he reaches the driver’s side, he tugs on the handle and opens the door.
“Keys are in the ignition,” he says, looking back at me with wide, excited eyes.
“Shut. Up.” But even as I say the words, I can’t deny what’s right in front of me. Just like waking up to Ryder cooking breakfast in my kitchen and him kissing me in the hot spring.
I walk over to take a peek inside as he slides into the driver’s seat like he’s done it a thousand times before, hands caressing the steering wheel. When he turns the key, the engine roars to life, the deep, powerful rumble vibrating its metal frame.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, reverently running his hands over the dashboard.
My mind is racing. This can’t be happening. First Ryder shows up out of nowhere, and now his truck appears out of thin air in my driveway? The boundaries between fiction and reality are crumbling faster than I can put them back together.
“Get in!” he yells, revving the engine.
“What? No!” I yell back over the ferocious rumble, crossing my arms. “I’m not wearing any shoes!”
“So? We won’t go far.” His eyes are wild with excitement. “Come on, kitten. Live a little.”
“Where would we even go, anyway?”
His grin is wild and dangerous. “Anywhere. Everywhere. Comeon. Aren’t you excited to see what happens next?”
The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to go back inside, lock the door and call a freaking psychiatrist. But there’s another part of me—the part that writes romance novels about risk, passion and adventure—already urging me around to the passenger side.
“Just a quick drive,” I tell him firmly as I climb inside. “I gotta get some writing done.”
The interior smells like him, all leather and sandalwood. The seats are worn in all the right places, and there’s a small tear in the upholstery near the gearshift. It feels lived in and very… real.
“Buckle up buttercup, and hold on,” he orders as he throws the truck into reverse.
We tear down the gravel driveway, stones pinging against the undercarriage. Ryder handles the massive vehicle like a pro and when we hit the main road, he guns it, the force of the acceleration pressing me back against the seat.
“Jesus!” I shriek as I grab the oh-shit handle. “Are you trying to kill us?”
“Just enjoying being behind the wheel again, kitten,” he laughs, easing off the gas a little. “You have no idea how good this feels.”
I watch his profile as he drives—the way his hands clench the steering wheel, the feral glint in his eyes as he peers happily through the windshield with a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
He looks... content. Like a puzzle that’s finally found its missing piece.
