Chapter 9
Ryder parked along a flat stretch of a two-lane road near his favorite running trail. He was on mile two when Amy called.
“Did you see?” she squealed.
“I saw. Surprised you waited so long to call.”
“I know, right? Oh my god, what a great picture. I couldn’t have staged that better if I’d posed you myself. I gave them more information, but they didn’t use it. Maybe next time. I found out where they hang. You know, the St. Pierres. Bouchon Bakery for their TLC cookies, Bottega for dinner—”
“Amy . . .” He kept his voice steady. She was the third woman he’d had to contend with today and it wasn’t even noon. “There’s not going to be a next time. It’s a safe bet Chardonnay St. Pierre hates my guts.”
“What? Giving up so soon? Listen, I heard they’re going to be at Diablo next Fri—”
But now Ryder was distracted by a group of women approaching at a right angle.
“Hey,” he puffed. “I’m running. Remember? Got to get in shape for this new film. Call you later.”
“Running? Oh, that’s why you’re breathing so hard. Yes, that’s important. You go work those glutes.”
He slipped his phone into his pocket, then slowed as he approached the intersection.
The group reached the corner just in front of him and turned onto his path.
“Three-mile mark!” A strikingly familiar voice came from a lithe runner with a blond ponytail. Its owner looked his way without breaking stride—until her face froze with recognition.
“I take it you saw the photo,” Ryder said, matching her gait as he ran up alongside her.
After her morning, Char had just begun to calm down. Now her anger reared up all over again. Too furious to respond, she focused on maintaining her pace and stared straight ahead, though she was aware of heat creeping up on her face. Her fair coloring was conducive to blushing, and the realization that Ryder McBride might notice her anger made her even madder.
Up ahead, none of her teammates noticed anything unusual. But then, none of them had been present at last night’s dinner at the mansion, nor apparently seen the evidence on the Internet—or were too considerate to mention it. But Char knew it was only a matter of time.
“Just so you know, hellcat, it wasn’t my idea,” said Ryder.
“I’m not your hellcat. And what wasn’t your idea? The kiss? Or the picture?” Char fought to appear unruffled, but both of them were already breathing hard from running.
“None of it.”
She gave him a scathing sideways glance. “Well then, whose idea was it?”
Ryder dodged a big crack in the sidewalk, then wove back.
Then they both started talking at once.
He began apologizing, as she added, “What even made you want to come last night in the first place?”
“I didn’t.”
Char turned and viewed him with undisguised amazement. And when she did, she couldn’t help but notice the muscles in his arms and across his chest, under the thin fabric of his shirt. He wasn’t muscle-bound, but he was very fit and his proportions were perfect.
“Going to your party was never my idea. My PR person managed to get an invite through your father’s people.”
Char could hardly keep from rolling her eyes. He was so typical, predictable Hollywood.
“But once you got your foot in the door, you thought, why not capitalize on your visit by making a play for the hostess—for the camera?”
“Look, I’m not going to make excuses. Yes, I went to your party on the advice of my agent. But the kiss? That was all my idea. Not even Martin Scorsese could have made me kiss you if I hadn’t wanted to.”
“Well, I hope you enjoyed it.”
“As a matter of fact, I did enjoy it. I enjoyed it immensely.” His smile lit up his whole face.
Char noticed she’d broken a sweat from exertion—or was it because of the guy running next to her, matching her step for step? Char was a seasoned runner, but surely Ryder had slowed his usual pace to stay next to her, a woman. With those quads, he could’ve left her in the dust by now. What was his motivation? He had to know she’d never allow a repeat of last night. Never in a million, billion years.
“Well, that was the first and last time you’ll ever kiss me.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. ’Specially after I saw the picture. Only ’cause my baby sister showed it to me. Personally, I have better things to do than look myself up online.”
Char was about to deliver a severe tongue-lashing when her media radar went on alert.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked suspiciously.
He shrugged, smiled, and faked an innocent look. “Uh . . . running?”
“What are you really doing? How’d you find me?”
“I didn’t ‘find’ you. I wasn’t even looking for you.”
“Right. How naive do you think I am? Where are they?”
She twisted sideways, then made a full circle while jogging in place, searching for bushes or slow-moving cars.
“Where are who? The paparazzi?” He snorted. “Look, hellcat, you might be beautiful and rich, but the world doesn’t revolve around you. This is a great running trail. If you’ll notice, there are other people here, too.”
“Yes, and if you’ll notice, they’re with me. I’m training them,” she said, unable to conceal a touch of pride.
“For what?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“It’s not. Just making conversation.”
Ooooh, he was so exasperating!
“If you must know, we’re training for a half-marathon,” she said, lifting her chin an inch.
“Pretty impressive. You ever run a half?”
“Have you?” she threw back.
“I’ve run four wholes. I guess that would equal eight halves.” The playful grin again.
“Full of yourself, aren’t you?”
Was the man’s sole purpose in life to annoy her?
“For what?” he asked then.
“What do you mean, for what?”
“What’re you running for? What’s the cause? If there’s a team, there’s always a cause. An organization. An event. A disease.”
“The McDaniel Foundation.”
What was she doing, still conversing with him? She should’ve cut him off a block ago.
“Ah.”
Char said a prayer that the earth would suddenly open up and swallow Ryder McBride whole. Everywhere he went, he created a distraction. Her team members were beginning to glance back over their shoulders. Did they recognize him dressed the way he was, in running shorts, Ray-Bans, and a ball cap?
There was a brief silence in which all they could hear was the slap of their soles on the blacktop and each other’s fast breathing, and then her curiosity overcame her common sense.
“What about you? You do this every Saturday morning?” She’d never seen him before on her regular route.
“Today’s just a junk run. Did my LSD yesterday”—he interrupted himself—“you know, long slow distance.”
She made a face. “I know what LSD means.”
Unfazed, he went on. “But this is my first Saturday out here since I moved back. I’ve got a place in LA, but I’m working on a new project up here in Napa, and I need to get in shape for it. I’m living at my mom’s for the summer.”
He looked her way and grinned fetchingly.
Again.
Char wiped the perspiration off her forehead with her arm.
He knew full well that he was already “in shape.” In fact, she couldn’t imagine any way he could possibly be more in shape.
And then, Char’s nerves got the best of her, and she began to giggle.
Oh, how she hated herself for letting him get to her, but she couldn’t help it. Her giggle gurgled into a full-out laugh, and she lost her momentum.
Ryder slowed, too.
“What’s the matter? You don’t think I have it in me?”
Why, oh why, could she not wipe the stupid smile from her face?
“Obviously, you are fishing for compliments.”
“Well, you might be right. Maybe I am. But I wouldn’t do that if I didn’t like you. I wouldn’t care what you thought of me.”
There was another lull as she tried to think of a smart retort, but then he saved her.
“Like I tried to say before, I’m sorry. For kissing you, I mean.”
And then Ryder stopped, right there in the middle of the sidewalk, and stuck out his right hand.
It was that ancient gesture of trust, and Char, with her boarding school manners, responded instinctively with her own hand.
But recalling last night, she withdrew it just as swiftly.
Yet he was faster. He’d caught her before she could pull all the way back.
He was about to do it again. He reeled her body toward him, and as he did, a thrill shot through her, in spite of herself.
But unlike last night, when he’d rendered her gasping for air, this time both their chests were already heaving from the last half hour spent pounding the pavement.
Ryder wound her forearm into his side, drawing her so close she could feel his breath on her face. It held a trace of cinnamon toast.
He held her there, staring hard into her eyes while she anticipated a repeat of last night’s performance. Then his gaze traveled down to her lips, and she braced herself for their onslaught. She gulped. Some primal emotion swept across his face; something dark enough to scare her, yet sweet enough to melt her fear.
And then, abruptly, he released her.
“Friends?” he asked cheerily.
“Friends,” she echoed, because what else could she say? She’d be damned if she let him know he’d flustered her.
“Good,” he said. He sprang away at a diagonal.
“Nice seeing you again. But I’ll never get buff at this pace. Got to pick it up a little.” He flashed her one last toothpaste-commercial smile.
Damn him! Every time she thought she “got” him, he proved her dead wrong. Now he’d left her discomfited all over again. She should be grateful he hadn’t kissed her, but to her chagrin, disappointment swelled through her.
Lengthening his stride, he sprinted easily around Char and her pack, and in no time at all was far out in front.
Char watched his back—and his quads, biceps, and glutes—until he made a turn, taking him out of sight.
He’d definitely been coasting earlier, staying at her pace just so they could talk.
Char had been athletic all her life. She knew another jock when she saw one; she’d hate to be in competition with the likes of him. For the half-marathon, or any aspect of the challenge.
Not only would Ryder McBride have a good chance of actually winning a half-marathon purse himself, she could only imagine the auction items he could persuade people to donate to his cause, just because of who he was.
Luckily for her, he wasn’t any part of the challenge.
A woman up ahead, eyes sparkling with mischief, called out, “Who was that?”
“Nobody,” Char replied, thankful that Ryder wasn’t quite so famous that he was immediately recognizable in running gear.
Yet.
“Four-mile mark!” she called out to her team, suppressing an inner smile.