Page 30 of Riggs
The next setup is the pass. An open kitchen with the heat shimmering, and Mateo tosses something in the pan that smokes in a way chefs consider foreplay. I lean into the counter, laugh at his joke, and feel Riggs arrive like a shift in weather. He’s behind me, hand at my waist, and the crowd’s volume nudging up a notch just from the shape of him.
A teenage boy at the fence yells, “Kiss her, Beard-Mountain!”
I choke on a laugh. So does Mateo. Riggs doesn’t.
Two beats pass, and then his palm curves fully at my hip, and he steps close enough that my shoulder blades press to his chest. “You good?” he asks, voice low.
“Very,” I say, and I am. And it’s the safest kind ofveryI’ve ever felt.
He tips my chin, an invitation and a question, not a command. The crowd hushes—phones poised, mouths open—and I answer by rising on my toes. He meets me there, mouth warm and sure, not a peck for strangers but not the kind of kiss we give away either. It’s…perfect. Long enough for the phones to get it, short enough that only we feel the aftershock. The fence explodes in a cheer that hits absurdly sweet. Mateo whoops. Brice makes a strangled noise like metric gold fell out of the sky.
Riggs steps back half an inch, eyes on mine, crowd already a blur. “Wow,” he says.
“Yeah. Wow,” I echo, breathless, and the way the word sits in my chest makes me stupid-happy. The bystanders begin to chant something mildly obscene and delighted. Lina fans her face with the shot list. Brice clutches his headset like it’s a rosary.
We work. Riggs holds the line. The chemistry becomes part of the light instead of a distraction, and the whole shoot hums because of it. He intercepts a delivery guy before the man crosses the threshold, checks the bag, hands it to Mateo with a warning about chain-of-custody that somehow doesn’t kill the vibe. He moves me a foot left when a reflection in the metal sculpture threatens to catch too much. He leans in between takes to murmur, “Water,” and I drink without making a face because he’s right and I like being alive.
During a reset, the beanie girls call out, “We love you, Vanessa! Is he good to you?”
I don’t look at them. I look at him, at the steady profile, the watchful eyes, the mouth that just kissed me in a crowd and felt like privacy anyway. “Yeah,” I say, smiling so hard my cheeks ache. “He is.”
Next, I change looks. I’m in a silver skirt that sparkles just right, a white tee knotted at the waist, and a denim jacket we all pretend is casual and not curated within an inch of its life. The bystanders go feral for the spin. I play to them, to the camera, to the man who stands behind both like a promise.
“Confessional?” Brice suggests, and I nod, sliding onto a stool by a mural of a chili pepper with fangs. I talk into Lina’s handheld. I talk about food and pop-ups and community and how public attention can be fuel or a match depending on who’s holding it. I don’t mention Kellan. I don’t mention glue sticks pretending to be ransom notes. I don’t have to. The shot is stronger when the threat is implied and the answer—we’re still here—is the point.
We’re wrapping when a folded paper flutters out from under a stack of branded coasters by the POS. My stomach dips. Riggs sees it at the same time I do. It doesn’t belong, the way it’s beenplaced where my hand would slide if I weren’t me. His palm is on my wrist before I can reach, and he lifts the coaster with his multitool and reveals the note like a magician revealing a trick with contempt.
Block letters again. No signature this time.YOU MAKE IT TOO EASY.
Cold tries to climb my spine. Riggs’s heat blocks it. He bags the paper, gives me one look—breathe—and nods to Mateo. “Sorry about the coaster,” he says, so polite it’s hilarious.
Mateo’s jaw hardens. “Get him,” he says. “Then come back hungry.”
“Plan,” Riggs says.
We exit through the side gate while Lucas runs blocker at the front, Rae freezes frames and Jaxson peels MAC addresses off the pop-up’s dusty router like stickers. I keep my chin up, shoulders loose, fingers brushing Riggs’s. The crowd’s cheers turn to a wave of blessings—you two are so cute,kiss again,OMG goals—and I want to laugh and cry at the same time, because the paradox of my life has never felt this sharp.
In the SUV, door shut, world muted, he tips my face toward his with two fingers. “You good?” It isn’t a question that wants a brave answer.
“I’m mad,” I say. “I’m tired. I’m…happy you kissed me.” The last bit falls out like it’s doing parkour.
His mouth curves. “I am too,” he says.
“Both?” I ask, needing the joke, needing the truth.
“All three,” he says. He texts Dean a crisp summary—note at POS, “too easy”; bagged; likely K. Stevens; pushing to Turner;—then sets his phone facedown and threads his fingers through mine like we didn’t just do that in public. Like it always belonged here.
We watch the city glide by. My hand fits in his. The line between cover and want thins to something we both can see through. Maybe I should be more afraid of that.
I’m not.
Back at the hotel, in the quiet after the elevator dings, he leans his forehead to mine for a beat, our breath looping. “I need you.”
“Are you sure?” I ask him, wanting to make sure he doesn’t have the regret I saw written all over his face this morning.
“I broke my own rules last night. I never should have allowed that to happen.” He stands statue still.
“But you did,” I interrupt.
