Unstoppable
Page 51
A future I never dreamed I could possess. The man who’s already changed my life in a dozen tiny ways.
This is for real.
I shiver, curling deeper under the covers. “I don’t want to say goodnight,” I tell him softly.
“So don’t.” His reply is simple. “I’m right here.”
The silence washes over me, safe and sound. I lie back, relaxing now, listening to the faint sound of his breathing, and the rhythmic swell of the distant waves. It lulls me, wrapping me up in a warmth of possibility until I slip into the velvet darkness.
This is only the beginning.
27.
“Your boyfriend called,” Blake tells me casually over breakfast the next morning, as if he’s only just remembered.
My head jolts up from the plate of pancakes I’m currently inhaling. I check my phone, but there are no new messages. “Ryland called… you? Why?”
Blake grins, smug. “Because he knows what’s good for him, that’s why.” He takes a gulp of coffee and gazes out of the diner windows like he knows just how impatient I’m getting.
After the intensity last night with Ryland, it seems almost wrong for the world to keep spinning: for me to be sitting here in the sun-drenched diner with Springsteen playing in the background and waitresses bustling past, as if nothing has changed.
How can they not realize everything is different now? Brighter, sweeter, more vivid and full of life.
Full of love.
“What did he want?” I demand, anxious.
Blake yawns slowly. He picks up a strip of crispy bacon and takes a bite. Scratches his unshaven jaw.
I break.
“Oww,” Blake flinches as I kick him under the table. “What was that for?”
“For being such a jackass!” I retort. “Tell me, what did Ryland want? Or I’ll send you back to Hollywood with a matching pair of bruises on those hunky legs of yours,” I add, only half-joking.
Blake leans down to rub his shin. “They’re not hunky, they’re ‘thrillingly masculine,’” he retorts, quoting from a Vanity Fair article that ran about him last month. The journalist swooned so hard, I’m surprised she didn’t propose in the piece.
“I thought you didn’t read your own press,” I tease him.
Blake’s lips quirk in a smile. “Maybe I read some of it,” he admits. “You can’t blame me, half of the roles I get offered now are because they put me on the cover of US Weekly. It’s got nothing to do with my acting anymore.”
“You’re right.” I pat his hand sympathetically. “It must be hard, being judged on that pretty face of yours all day long.”
Blake gives me a look. “Just for that, I won’t tell you what your boyfriend said.”
“No! I’m sorry, I take it back!” I exclaim quickly. “Please. Pretty please. With a cherry on top.” I make a pouting face.
Blake laughs. “Relax. He was calling to ask us over for a BBQ this afternoon. His sister and her husband invited us.”
“Brit, and Hunter.” I nod, feeling strangely disappointed. I had different plans in mind for us: that locked bedroom we’ve been talking so much about.
“We don’t have to go,” Blake says, misreading my expression.
“What? Oh, no, I didn’t mean that. Brit is great, I haven’t met Hunter yet, but I’m sure he’s a good guy too. It’ll be fun,” I say, warming to the idea. It’ll be nice to see Brit again, and it’s probably a good idea for Blake to get to know Ryland in a more low-pressure environment.
One where his pants are safely zippered shut.
“You really like him, huh?” Blake watches me across the table.
I feel my cheeks blush. I nod. “Like doesn’t even come close.”
“Hmmm…” Blake doesn’t show emotion either way, he just reaches across to steal my bacon. “Just remember what the therapists said and Pinecrest, OK?”
“Blake—” I sigh, reluctant, but he cuts me off.
“You’re not supposed to get involved with anyone, not for months. You don’t want to rebound after Connor.”
“Ryland isn’t a rebound.” I say it quietly, but the look I give him is pure steel.
Blake takes the hint. He looks away. “So, is there a grocery place around here? I promised we’d bring the steaks.”
For the rest of the morning, Blake lets the subject slide. The weather is cooler now, but we still sit out on the beach together, him with a stack of scripts to read, and me with my music composition notebook. Playing my song for Ryland last night gave me some new ideas about the chorus, and I pick at my guitar, pausing to scribble down new notes and wording.
He’s inspired me. I find myself flipping the pages, starting new fragments and songs. I have a hundred ideas spinning in my head, and all of them are about him.
Before I know it, it’s time to head over to the ranch to meet Ryland and his family. I change clothes three times, not sure what to wear, before finally landing on a pair of dark wash jeans and a simple white eyelet top under a red cardigan.
“Very patriotic,” Blake flicks my ponytail when I clamber into the car. “But you’re kind of late for Independence Day.”
I roll my eyes. “What would you know? Weren’t you off in Mexico with whatshername, the quinoa girl?” The last girl Blake dated was one of those LA yoga juice cleanse types. I swear, she ordered sprouted grains every time we went out to eat—including breakfast.
This is for real.
I shiver, curling deeper under the covers. “I don’t want to say goodnight,” I tell him softly.
“So don’t.” His reply is simple. “I’m right here.”
The silence washes over me, safe and sound. I lie back, relaxing now, listening to the faint sound of his breathing, and the rhythmic swell of the distant waves. It lulls me, wrapping me up in a warmth of possibility until I slip into the velvet darkness.
This is only the beginning.
27.
“Your boyfriend called,” Blake tells me casually over breakfast the next morning, as if he’s only just remembered.
My head jolts up from the plate of pancakes I’m currently inhaling. I check my phone, but there are no new messages. “Ryland called… you? Why?”
Blake grins, smug. “Because he knows what’s good for him, that’s why.” He takes a gulp of coffee and gazes out of the diner windows like he knows just how impatient I’m getting.
After the intensity last night with Ryland, it seems almost wrong for the world to keep spinning: for me to be sitting here in the sun-drenched diner with Springsteen playing in the background and waitresses bustling past, as if nothing has changed.
How can they not realize everything is different now? Brighter, sweeter, more vivid and full of life.
Full of love.
“What did he want?” I demand, anxious.
Blake yawns slowly. He picks up a strip of crispy bacon and takes a bite. Scratches his unshaven jaw.
I break.
“Oww,” Blake flinches as I kick him under the table. “What was that for?”
“For being such a jackass!” I retort. “Tell me, what did Ryland want? Or I’ll send you back to Hollywood with a matching pair of bruises on those hunky legs of yours,” I add, only half-joking.
Blake leans down to rub his shin. “They’re not hunky, they’re ‘thrillingly masculine,’” he retorts, quoting from a Vanity Fair article that ran about him last month. The journalist swooned so hard, I’m surprised she didn’t propose in the piece.
“I thought you didn’t read your own press,” I tease him.
Blake’s lips quirk in a smile. “Maybe I read some of it,” he admits. “You can’t blame me, half of the roles I get offered now are because they put me on the cover of US Weekly. It’s got nothing to do with my acting anymore.”
“You’re right.” I pat his hand sympathetically. “It must be hard, being judged on that pretty face of yours all day long.”
Blake gives me a look. “Just for that, I won’t tell you what your boyfriend said.”
“No! I’m sorry, I take it back!” I exclaim quickly. “Please. Pretty please. With a cherry on top.” I make a pouting face.
Blake laughs. “Relax. He was calling to ask us over for a BBQ this afternoon. His sister and her husband invited us.”
“Brit, and Hunter.” I nod, feeling strangely disappointed. I had different plans in mind for us: that locked bedroom we’ve been talking so much about.
“We don’t have to go,” Blake says, misreading my expression.
“What? Oh, no, I didn’t mean that. Brit is great, I haven’t met Hunter yet, but I’m sure he’s a good guy too. It’ll be fun,” I say, warming to the idea. It’ll be nice to see Brit again, and it’s probably a good idea for Blake to get to know Ryland in a more low-pressure environment.
One where his pants are safely zippered shut.
“You really like him, huh?” Blake watches me across the table.
I feel my cheeks blush. I nod. “Like doesn’t even come close.”
“Hmmm…” Blake doesn’t show emotion either way, he just reaches across to steal my bacon. “Just remember what the therapists said and Pinecrest, OK?”
“Blake—” I sigh, reluctant, but he cuts me off.
“You’re not supposed to get involved with anyone, not for months. You don’t want to rebound after Connor.”
“Ryland isn’t a rebound.” I say it quietly, but the look I give him is pure steel.
Blake takes the hint. He looks away. “So, is there a grocery place around here? I promised we’d bring the steaks.”
For the rest of the morning, Blake lets the subject slide. The weather is cooler now, but we still sit out on the beach together, him with a stack of scripts to read, and me with my music composition notebook. Playing my song for Ryland last night gave me some new ideas about the chorus, and I pick at my guitar, pausing to scribble down new notes and wording.
He’s inspired me. I find myself flipping the pages, starting new fragments and songs. I have a hundred ideas spinning in my head, and all of them are about him.
Before I know it, it’s time to head over to the ranch to meet Ryland and his family. I change clothes three times, not sure what to wear, before finally landing on a pair of dark wash jeans and a simple white eyelet top under a red cardigan.
“Very patriotic,” Blake flicks my ponytail when I clamber into the car. “But you’re kind of late for Independence Day.”
I roll my eyes. “What would you know? Weren’t you off in Mexico with whatshername, the quinoa girl?” The last girl Blake dated was one of those LA yoga juice cleanse types. I swear, she ordered sprouted grains every time we went out to eat—including breakfast.
