Chapter 8
“Mom! Look at this! Hurry up and look!” Bridget sat at the family computer in her flannel pj’s. A cartoon was playing softly on the TV over by the couch when Ryder entered his family living room, yawning.
“Bridget, how many times have I asked you not to eat cereal at the computer? If you spill milk into the keyboard, it’ll be ruined,” his mother scolded, drying her hands on a tea towel.
The girl hurriedly set her bowl on the coffee table, milk swirling perilously close to its rim, and tugged urgently on the sleeve of her mother’s robe. “Come ’ere! You gotta see this picture of Ryder!”
“What picture?” he interjected, scratching his torso.
Neither female responded. Both of their heads were bowed over the screen.
“ ‘Ryder McBride: Drunk on Chardonnay?’ ” quoted Bridget, mispronouncing Char’s name with a hard ch. She lifted her face to his, and her youthful innocence tore at something inside him.
Bridget was the baby of the family. Ben and Brian, his twin brothers, had just gotten home for the summer, but today was Saturday. They wouldn’t be up for another hour.
“What does that mean? Were you really drunk? Is that why you’re kissing that girl?”
Then his mother gave him the same vexed expression she’d worn when he’d broken his arm riding his dirt bike off a homemade ramp at age thirteen.
Nothing like that look to wake up a guy fast.
Only nine hours earlier, he’d been at that high-class party, rubbing shoulders with politicians and socialites.
“Let me see that.” Ryder nosed in between them.
He skimmed the story. But what caught his attention was the photo.
He had to admit, it was good. It resurrected something pleasurable in his gut. And below the drawstring in his pajama bottoms. He shifted his hips a little, hoping no one would notice.
“Well, Amy should be pleased,” he muttered.
That had been the prime objective of last night: to be seen in public with one of the St. Pierre heiresses.
Though kissing Chardonnay had ignited something exciting deep within him, he wasn’t fool enough to think it’d go any further. Especially once she saw this. Any slim chance he might’ve hoped for to see her again was gone like that slab of cheesecake he’d snuck out to the limo driver, via Amy’s colossal handbag.
“Who’s Amy?” asked Bridget, pointing to the screen. “Her?”
“No, not her. Amy’s my PR person. That’s Chardonnay.”
“But why should she be happy? Amy, I mean?” pressed Bridget.
The toast popped up, and his mother left the computer and returned to the kitchen to butter it.
Ryder sighed, opened the fridge to get some orange juice, and tried to think of a way to explain to an inquisitive eleven-year-old why getting his picture taken kissing a rich society girl he barely knew would help pay their mortgage and utility bill.
“First things first,” he said, downing his juice in one gulp. “I wasn’t drunk, not in the least. Second, that girl’s name is Chardonnay,” he said, enunciating clearly. “She’s just a friend of mine.”
“Like the other ones I read about online and in those magazines at the grocery store?” replied Bridget.
“Yep. Just like those. Same thing.”
Bridget looked doubtful.
He tried again. “See, when people read stories about me, it makes them want to watch my movies. And the more people who go to my movies, the more money I get. That’s how actors get paid. And if I get my picture taken with pretty girls, that makes me seem much more interesting.”
“The kids at school say you have lots of girlfriends.”
“Nope. None of those girls in the pictures are my girlfriends.”
“That’s what I told them, but they don’t believe me.”
“That’s okay. I only care about what you and Mom think. And I always tell you two the truth.” He could have included the bros in that pronouncement, but at nineteen, they had a healthy preoccupation with sports, cars, and real girls. Celebrity gossip was way off their radar.
“But you were kissing her.” Bridget frowned.
She was right. Though there’d been other published photos with him around women, this was the first shot of him in an actual embrace—as far as he knew. He only read about himself when other people brought it to his attention.
“That’s enough, Bridget,” his mother said from over at the stove. “Do you two want some eggs?”
Bridget shook her head and went back to her preoccupation with the computer while Ryder ran his hand through his sleep-tousled hair and groaned. He was in warrior mode for this film, but he couldn’t say no to his mom’s cooking.
“Okay. Then I’m going for a run. I’ll be back later to mow the grass. I canceled the lawn service for the summer, since I’ll be staying here till the film’s in the can.”