The rest of the week flew by. Quinn was happy to let the sun-kissed days tick by at their own pace. However, she hated to see the nights sail by in the blink of an eye. It wasn't the sex—though that took her breath away and made her body sing—it was the long talks. For the first time, Quinn felt free to ask Ryder anything without fear of breaking the rules. His friends and Zoe were still off limits, but Ryder was an open book. Fascinating and never dull.
There was one subject that Quinn hesitated to broach. It was the night before they were to leave. Ryder sipped a glass of wine, Quinn had opted for iced tea, as they sat on the porch swing, his arm comfortably resting on her shoulders. The silence was peaceful, broken only by the creatures of the night and Ryder humming. They were so relaxed, so at ease. Quinn didn't want to spoil the moment by dragging up one more taboo subject. But she had to know.
"What happened to your mother?"
"I have no idea."
Ryder's response was so matter-of-fact. So dispassionate. Quinn found it hard to believe that he was that blasé.
"Your father never talked about her?"
"My father rarely talked about anything. She left." Ryder shrugged. "I was too young to remember her so she must have left soon after Zoe was born. I know it's hard to imagine, but sometimes mothers aren't maternal."
"I understand that, Ryder." At least theoretically. Once more, Quinn silently thanked her parents for doing the best they could. She promised herself to visit her mother as soon as possible. "Haven't you ever wondered what happened?"
"Honestly? I never think of it—or her." With his finger, Ryder lifted her chin, meeting her gaze. The look in his eyes was a little sad, but Quinn had the feeling he felt worse for her than himself. "Tina Hart—that's her name—gave birth to me. She may have been a decent mother for the next three years. Or not. Why she left was between her and my father."
"But—"
"You can't understand because you love your mother. I don't miss what I never had."
"What about Zoe?" Quinn knew she was close to crossing the line Ryder had drawn in permanent ink. There was a natural crossover between Ryder and Zoe's life. A few questions were bound to involve his sister.
"You would have to ask her." When Quinn let out a frustrated sigh, Ryder smiled. "Not because I refuse to answer. Because I don't know. Zoe used to ask about her, but she stopped after our father's death."
"Would you have a problem if Zoe tried to find her?"
Slowly, Ryder shook his head. "It is up to her. Maybe she's already tried." That made him frown. "I don't want her to think she would have to keep it to herself."
"Zoe is an enigma." To put it mildly.
"You haven't had the chance to get to know her."
"Does she ever drop her attitude?"
"Nope." Ryder sounded pleased—almost proud. "She earned it legitimately. Nobody takes down a mean girl like Zoe Hart. However…" Ryder lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "If you ever tell her this, I'll deny you got it from me. Inside? If she loves you? She is nothing but marshmallow fluff."
That was hard for Quinn to picture. Even around Dalton and Ashe, Zoe had an edge. She laughed at their jokes and smiled when she didn't think Quinn was looking. But fluff? Zoe? Quinn would never say so, but when it came to his sister, it was possible that Ryder wore big brother blinders.
"What are your plans after we leave paradise?"
As Quinn asked the question, it suddenly hit her. They were leaving tomorrow. It had passed in a blink of the eye. She had to prepare to say goodbye to Aruba—and Ryder. Two weeks. Fun and games. No strings. No commitment. No future. Those had been the unspoken terms. Terms that sounded perfect at the time. The problem was, she hadn't expected to care so much.
Quinn hadn't planned on falling in love.
However, Quinn knew a broken heart was a small price to pay for what she had gained. Every moment she had spent with Ryder was worth all the years she would spend without him. It was that simple. If she could go back—knowing everything that was to come, including the way it would end—she wouldn't change a thing. Quinn had never loved before. Not like this. She knew—broken heart or not—that the sweet would always outweigh the bitter.
"I need to get my ass hopping. We are supposed to hit the recording studio at the end of next month. If I don't start to write, it will be a mighty thin album."
"What about the others?"
Quinn knew that Ryder wrote the bulk of the band's songs. However, Dalton and Ashe were first-rate wordsmiths and Zoe's ability to write a tune was well documented.
"We'll get together. Right now is solo time. The band spends so many days and nights together that we deliberately block out a few weeks away from each other. I have a cabin in Sierra, Nevada. Rustic is putting it mildly. It has a generator and running water. No cell service. A barely passable road."
"Sounds God-awful."
"I love it—for a week. Two max. After that? Pretty much God-awful."
Quinn laughed. "Is there an indoor toilet?"
"I had one put in when I bought the place."
"Smart man. Nobody needs to run the risk of meeting a bear on the way to do his business. Especially at three in the morning."
"There is hot water, too."
"Did I say God-awful? What was I thinking? It is practically the Hilton."
Ryder nuzzled the top of Quinn's head with his cheek. He hadn't shaved in two days, and the stubble snagged her hair. She found the tug on her scalp oddly appealing. Then again, it was Ryder. There wasn't much he could do that she didn't like.
"You could come for a visit."
"To your cabin?" Quinn's heart rate increased. "What about your songwriting? Besides, I need to get back to work."
"You won't disturb me. Bring your camera. The mountains are a photographer's dream. You'll make a fortune on the pictures." Ryder lowered his voice to a deep, sexy timbre. "At night, we can play Parcheesi and dab Aloe Vera on each other's mosquito bites."
"You make it almost irresistible."
Quinn didn't know how to take Ryder's invitation. He sounded serious. Yet the tone was teasing. He would be happy to have her company—but would he care if she turned him down?
"It is tempting, but I better not."
"How about for a long weekend? I dab a mean Aloe Vera."
The more Ryder pushed, the better it was for Quinn's ego. However, her ego was just fine the way it was. Her heart was another matter. At this moment, leaving him was doable. It wouldn't take much—like a long weekend—for Quinn to forget her common sense—not to mention her pride.
"There are plenty of women who would be thrilled by the invitation. Especially if it involved you dabbing their anything."
"I don't want any woman. I want you." Ryder's eyes narrowed. "You pulled away. What is going on, Quinn?"
Quinn didn't pull away. She jumped to her feet and walked across the porch.
"Stop pushing, Ryder. Please?"
"Tell me what happened?" Ryder stood, but to his credit, kept his distance. "Is it the cabin? I know it isn't a bungalow in Aruba, but—"
"I don't care about that. I don't care about the indoor toilet or hot running water. I—" Quinn took a deep breath. How the hell had she backed herself into this corner? "That has nothing to do with it."
"If you won't speak to me, how can I know what's wrong? How can I fix it?"
Normally, Quinn would have cheered Ryder and that piece of wisdom. She valued talk over silence. For once, she didn't think the truth would do either of them any good.
"You won't like what I have to say."
Blissfully unaware of the bombshell coming his way, Ryder sent her a cocky smile.
"I'll judge that for myself. Hit me with your best shot."
It felt like Ryder had issued her a challenge. Quinn never backed down from one of those. "I'm in love with you."
Quinn had wanted to knock the smile off Ryder's face. She got her wish—and then some. Ryder's fa
ce turned white, and he looked slightly sick to his stomach. She hadn't expected him to jump with joy, but this was borderline insulting.
"No, you aren't."
"I know how I feel, Ryder."
Obviously frustrated, Ryder sighed. "Quinn. I can't—I don't—love you."
"I know." Before Ryder could react, Quinn cut him off. "I know it would be easier for both of us if this hadn't happened. And I know the smart thing would have been to keep it to myself."
"Amen to that," Ryder grumbled.
"Hey, fella." Quinn jabbed the air in Ryder's general direction. "You're the one who pushed. But you know what? I'm glad I said it."
As she heard her words, Quinn realized it was true. Perhaps it wasn't wise to put herself out there with no hope of anything but disappointment and heartbreak. But there was something freeing about saying the words. She loved her parents. But she was in love for the first time in her life. And damn it, whether he knew it or not, Ryder needed to be loved by someone other than his millions of anonymous, blindly adoring fans. He had let her in—further than anyone else. She had seen his demons. They didn't scare her. She wasn't repelled or shocked. She loved Ryder Hart. Not the rock god. The man. Fears, foibles, and all.
Looking at them, one would have thought Quinn was the one rejecting Ryder. He looked so distressed. So hurt. On the other hand, Quinn felt strangely at peace. Perhaps the truth did set her free.
Ryder turned away, his hands reaching out to grip the porch rail. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Then don't." Quinn wrapped her arms around Ryder's waist. Resting her head on his back, she breathed in his scent. "Be my friend, Ryder. Let me love you."
"I am your friend, Quinn. That will never change."
"Don't be sad, Ryder. I'm not."
Seemingly resigned, Ryder took Quinn's hand. Tugging, he reversed their positions.
"Tell me what to do," Ryder whispered, his breath caressing her ear.
"Hold me." Quinn turned. "Kiss me." She sighed when he followed her request. Her fingers slid through his thick dark hair, drawing him closer. "Now, take me to bed and love me the only way you can."
Without a word, Ryder lifted her and carried her into the bungalow for the last time. Quinn took in everything. The curve of his lips. The touch of his hands. His taste. One last memory to last a lifetime.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LIKE THE OPENING of an old door in a creepy horror movie, the ropes supporting the hammock between the huge pine trees creaked threateningly. Unconcerned, Ryder shifted his weight. The hammock—and the rope—was new, expertly installed by the skilled technician who had delivered it directly to his door. Not only had Burt Pollard assured Ryder that his company's product would withstand gale-force winds, the man turned out to be a fan.
A little conversation and an autograph later, Ryder had Burt's word that the hammock was there to stay. And that nobody would discover Ryder's location. Burt swore his lips were sealed.
Ryder had taken both of Burt's promises with a grain of salt. No matter his good intentions, things happened. But so far—three weeks later—the hammock was rock solid and so was Ryder's much-needed solitude.
As he stretched his arms over his head, Ryder watched one lone fluffy cloud float through the sky. The evergreens that surrounded his cabin didn't let in a lot of light. The trees were thick and had been there for hundreds of years. He could walk for miles without finding more than the occasional clearing. Besides the unpaved road, access was minimal.
It was exactly the reason Ryder purchased the one-bedroom cabin. The chances of someone dropping by were slim to none. Visitors were strictly invitation only. Since he wasn't there to socialize, those invitations were few and far between.
The last person Ryder asked had turned him down, and though Quinn's reason was a good one, he hadn't been able to get her—or her reason—out of his head. He missed her. It was that simple. He hadn't laughed since they said goodbye. Or smiled. When Quinn had been with him, he had done both with ease and frequency.
Ryder had lost track of the number of times he had reached for Quinn in his sleep. The sex had been unbelievable. However, it was her company he missed the most. It should have passed by now—the need to be with her. To talk and laugh and do nothing at all but hold her hand.
Ryder sighed. Quinn believed she was in love with him. Closing his eyes, he let himself remember how he had felt in the first seconds after she said the words. Before he was reminded why it was impossible.
Pride. Hope. Reality.
The pride that a woman as amazing as Quinn would trust her heart with him. The hope that maybe Ryder Hart wasn't destined to spend his life writing about something he had never experienced—or believed he ever would. The reality that he didn't know how to love Quinn and if he tried, he was bound to disappoint her—killing her love forever. Like his brown eyes and his lean build, Ryder's genetic make-up was set. Love was not a Hart trait. His father had proven that over and over again.
You aren't your father. Ryder groaned. He could hear Quinn's voice as though she were beside him in the hammock, snuggled close. How many times had she told him that he was a good man? He didn't kick puppies. He didn't hurt the weak and defenseless. That was true—thank God. Yet the facts were what they were. Love—whatever that was—was a mystery. Ryder could see it. He could write words that made the heart sigh. But he had no idea how to live it. Quinn deserved someone who did.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Ryder absently pulled at his beard. He looked the part of the mountain recluse. He hadn't shaved in over a month. When he looked in the mirror, Ryder barely recognized himself. Now that he was past the itchy stage, he thought about keeping the look. It would make a damn fine disguise—for about five minutes. Fans were a surprisingly observant lot. Long, shaggy hair and a wild beard wouldn't fool the faithful for long.
Shaking off his wandering thoughts, Ryder reached for the guitar he had propped against the tree. The point of this trip had been to write songs for the next album. As always, he found the utter peace and quiet inspirational. Ryder believed the stuff he had written was some of his best. All they needed was some input from his band. They knew how to help him smooth the rough edges—or leave the edges exactly as they were.
Ryder strummed the strings, letting his mind find that place where magic happened. Access wasn't always possible, but when it was, there was no feeling like it. Before he realized it, Ryder played the notes of a song he hadn't been able to brush aside. Quinn's song.
No matter how Ryder tried, he couldn't let it go. Every time he began to write, this one melody pushed its way past the others. Stubbornly, he pushed back. Ryder had fifteen completed songs. Why wasn't that enough? Why wouldn't this one leave him be?
The solution was simple. Ryder should pack up his things and head to Los Angeles. It was time. Past time. The last time he drove to the nearest town for supplies he had called Zoe to check in. One more week, he promised. That was eight days ago.
Something kept him here. Ryder plucked out the opening chords haunting him. He knew what was wrong. Finishing the song he had started in Aruba would feel like the end to something logic told him was already over. Quinn was out of his life, and it had been his choice. He could stay—alone and frustrated—refusing to let it go. Or he could write the damn song.
Ryder swung his legs out of the hammock. Purposefully, he clutched the guitar and headed for the cabin. If he were going to do this, he was going to do it right. He closed the door behind him. Ryder needed three things. A beer. A comfortable chair. And his iPhone.
The cabin was rustic. However, Ryder liked to exaggerate its lack of comfort. The furniture was perfect for a long writing session in the wingback chair, followed by an afternoon nap on the soft as down corner sofa. There was little variety in the view—trees and more trees. But nobody would argue that what could be seen from the large plate-glass window was picture pretty.
The appliances in the kitchen were o
ld. Vintage was the term used by the realtor. Since Ryder didn't cook, nor did he plan on starting, the refrigerator and microwave were all the modern conveniences he needed.
The cabin wasn't home. It was where Ryder hibernated. Rested. Worked. It served a purpose. If he wanted luxury, he would check into a four-star hotel.
Ryder took out a cold beer, twisting the top from the bottle. Finding his favorite spot, he picked up his guitar, reached for his phone, and hit record. As his body settled, he closed his eyes, focused, and waited for the magic.
GETTING OVER A man—the man—wasn't as easy as some would have her believe. There were endless articles chronicling the proper path. Do this, then that, and finally the other thing. Boom. Her heart was mended. As far as Quinn could tell, it was mostly common sense, tears, and a boatload of alcohol. She had never been a fan of taking the advice of a stranger—even one of hundreds who purported to be an expert.
Quinn had been home for a month. She hadn't cried, and she wasn't going to take up drinking. The last thing she needed was a pounding head to accompany her heavy heart. Common sense told her to give herself as much time as she needed. Eventually, she would stop thinking of Ryder first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and every other minute in between.
However, Quinn was certain of one thing. If she wanted to move on, the pictures on her computer—and the ones she had plastered on the walls of her workroom—were not helping.
Pushing back from her desk, Quinn used her chair to slowly turn in a circle. There he was in all his glory. Ryder Hart. He had started as a job—a boost to her career. A stepping stone to bigger and better things. According to her editor at Rolling Stone, that was exactly what was about to happen. When her photo layout hits the stands next week, the magazine brass expected record sales. Exclusive access to the notoriously publicity-shy Ryder Hart Band was more than buzz-worthy. For Quinn, it was a potential game changer. She already had three new jobs lined up and her agent fielded offers from all over the globe. Quinn Abernathy was officially in demand. She wouldn't give Ryder all the credit. It took more than aiming a camera to produce a great picture. But he was a big part of it.
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