Page 17 of Blue Moon

“No, I ate it. I was hungry, okay?”

Ryder facepalmed. “You ate the evidence?”

“It wasn’t evidence; he ordered it from Carlo’s.”

“Then how do you know it was from him?”

“Because his name was on the receipt.”

“Did you keep the receipt?” Ryder asked.

“It’s in the trash.”

“I need it.”

“What? No, you don’t. Just hop on a plane back to Virginia and leave me alone.”

“No.”

“No?”

Ryder smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m on vacation. Always wanted to visit Vegas.”

“You have to be kidding me.”

Our gazes locked, a battle of wills I knew I was going to lose. I realised that all the qualities that had made me feel so safe in Ryder’s company also had the power to drive me crazy. His strength, his tenacity, his absolute determination to protect me at all costs.

Rats.

Paul’s head had been swivelling between us like a spectator’s at a tennis match. “Uh, do you want me to stay? Or should I call someone? Someone else, I mean?”

Who would he call? Emmy? Would she rein in Ryder if I asked? Probably not if he was here on his own time. And did I really want Paul to bear witness to me sniping at Ryder while he deflected my barbs like Captain America?

“I’m okay.”

“If you don’t feel safe here, you can stay at my place,” he offered, and a muscle ticced in Ryder’s jaw. “I don’t have a spare room, only a couch, but…”

Paul trailed off, probably because of Ryder’s death-laser glare. If looks could kill, Paul would have been clutching his chest.

“Relax, Paul’s gay. Like, actually gay, not just pretending because it’s convenient.”

Now Paul’s stare rivalled Ryder’s. “You did that?”

“It’s not something I’m proud of. It started out as a joke and ended up?—”

“You think cultural appropriation is a joke?”

“I made a mistake, and I’m sorry for that.”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing that spiralled,” I explained, then gave myself a mental slap. Why was I defending Ryder? “Anyhow, he’s a liar and he’s straight; those are the important takeaways.”

“And an asshole.”

“Yes.”

An asshole who’d given me the confidence to stand up for myself. An asshole who’d sat with me on the beach every night when I couldn’t sleep, who hadn’t made fun of my songwriting when everyone else told me it was stupid and “not commercial” and would never take me anywhere. An asshole who’d shared a bed with me—platonically—when I didn’t want to be alone.

I sighed and looked down. At the…microwave?

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