Page 41 of Rushing Into Love

“Yep. I’ll see you later.” I nodded at her, gave Alex another hug.

“Awesome game! Have a slice of pizza for me, okay?”

“Sure!” she said, beaming. “Let’s go, Mommy!” She tugged on Brooks’ hand and they headed off the field toward the car.

Ryder and I stood on the sidelines, facing each other.

“Why do I feel like that was a big set-up?” I asked, attempting to defuse the awkwardness that had suddenly crept up between us. Butterflies zoomed around my stomach as I fiddled with the zipper on my bag.

Ryder chuckled. “I definitely got that vibe, too. But I’ll take it.” He stepped in closer to me, his eyes twinkling under the lights, and heat rippled between us.

“Is there anything else you need to do?” I asked, glancing out at the field, lightly bouncing up and down in an attempt to stay warm.

“No, we’re good here. You ready?”

“Sure.”

Together we walked to the lot, being sure to keep a reasonable distance between us, just in case some creepy paparazzi was hanging around. He opened the passenger door for me and I slid in, swinging my legs around before he shut the door behind me. As he walked around the car, I did a quick survey of his vehicle: clean, neat interior, no dirty coffee mugs or mashed-up Cheerios on the floor mats. A good sign.

“Where do you want to go?” Ryder started the car, easing out of the parking spot. He glanced at me, his deep blue eyes even darker in the night.

“I’m up for anything, although given what happened last week, we should probably keep a low profile,” I said, folding my hands in my lap. I tried to ignore the pounding of my heart and the fluttering in my stomach.

“True.” He nodded, one hand on the wheel.

At the stop sign, he turned right on Main Street, heading the opposite direction of Brooklyn’s house. The night was chilly and I involuntarily shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked, adjusting the thermostat, turning on the heat. A warm blast of air filled the car, along with the radio.

“Sorry,” he said, mashing the radio buttons. “Charlie always demands KidzBop.” He found an acceptable radio station, the local Top 40 station, and visibly relaxed as the shrill voices of the kids faded.

“Are you cool going back to my place?” Ryder asked, glancing at me to gauge my acceptance of the plan.

“Sure, sounds good.”

We rode in companionable silence down a pitch-black road for a few minutes, until Ryder took a left, driving down a long gravel path. There were two houses about two hundred yards from each other. One looked to be the main house, the other a smaller version of the first. Both had large wraparound porches, illuminated by matching sconces.

“This is it,” Ryder said, pulling into the driveway on the right, the one that led to the smaller of the houses. “My parents live in the main house,” he explained, motioning to the big house. “When Charlie and I moved here, they let us stay in the smaller house. It’s cozy, but it’s the right size for the two of us.”

He parked the car, then came around to get my door.Southern charm—his mom raised him right. Ryder clearly had a tight-knit family; I worried I hadn’t made a good impression on Quinn, and the tabloid debacle hadn’t done me any favors.

“Thanks,” I murmured, climbing out of the car. I followed him the few steps to the house, climbed up the stairs to the porch. He unlocked the door, ushering me inside.

“Home sweet home.” He flipped on a lamp in the living room.

Ryder was right—‘cozy’ perfectly described his house. The walls were a warm cream color, and there was a comfy-looking brown leather couch and oversized TV in the main living area, along with a miniature blue bean bag chair that belonged to Charlie. We walked through the den into the kitchen, which was painted a soft yellow, with white cabinets and a small marble island flanked by two bar stools. He went to the fridge and surveyed its contents.

“Wine?” he asked, pulling out a bottle of Chardonnay.

“Sounds great,” I said, nodding, impressed he had wine. He set about opening the bottle, poured me a glass of wine. Handing it to me, he grabbed a bottle of beer for himself.

“Thanks, it’s great,” I said. My heart pounded in my chest, but perhaps the wine would drown some of the butterflies zooming around in my stomach.

“Are you hungry? I can order a pizza.”

“Sounds good.”

“What do you like?” he asked, pulling out his phone. He scrolled through the numbers, searching for the pizza place.

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