FLOWERS ON THE WALL (13 page)

"Why?"

"You heard. I get to spend a few days with my father, his third wife, and my fake aunt and uncle. The birthday party from hell falls during the yearly Popcorn Festival. Cora is always queen."

"The thirtysomething popcorn queen." Quinn gave Ryder props for saying it with a straight face. "She never loses?"

"Her father is mayor.
And
grows a lot of popcorn. They used to have a pageant, but eventually, nobody else entered."

"Where does your father live?"

"Minnow, Indiana. It's about twenty miles from Indianapolis where my father's law offices are located." Quinn flopped onto the sofa. "This is going to be torture."

"Okay," Ryder flopped down beside her. "You've talked me into it."

"Into what?" Quinn asked cautiously.

"Going with you to Minot, Indiana."

"Minnow," she corrected automatically. "And what are you talking about?"

"You made it sound irresistible. Cora the popcorn queen? A town named after a fish used for bait? And I have to meet Aunt Pinney and Uncle Titus."

"Have you lost your mind?" Balling up her fist, Quinn tapped Ryder on the side of his head. "I
have
to go. Why would you subject yourself to this?"

"It solves our problem. You host me in Minnow. After that, I treat us to a getaway—any place you like."

"I'll be staying with my father."

"I'll get a hotel room."

"That won't be necessary. It's a big house." Realizing what she had said, Quinn's eyes widened. "Ryder, this is not a good idea."

Ryder didn't seem to share her misgivings. Pulling her close, his lips brushed hers. "I've never been to a popcorn festival. Or
any
festival with a food-related theme."

Quinn savored the feel of Ryder's kiss. It almost made her forget what she had agreed to. "You can still change your mind."

"I could. But I won't."

"I warned you."

"Come on." Ryder took Quinn's hand, leading her toward the bed. Taking her in his arms, he jumped onto the mattress. "Do you have any objections to us taking the private jet?"

"No," Quinn sighed, sinking into the bliss of Ryder's kiss. "We'll be able to escape at a moment's notice."

"You sound certain that will be necessary."

"Knowing Cora and my father? It's inevitable."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

QUINN UNDERSTOOD ABOUT double standards. She had taken a stand about Ryder paying her way—though she caved rather quickly. In theory, she should have objected to taking his private jet. It was expensive. Elitist. It was also convenient, comfortable, and—yes—practical.

Ryder Hart was a superstar. Fans mobbed him wherever he went. Quinn had witnessed the chaos just the whisper of his name could cause in a crowd. She shuddered to think what it would be like in a crowded airport. The security. The flashing cameras. Ryder downplayed those incidents. But Quinn imagined it was a relief when he could travel in peace.

"That's a pensive look," Ryder said, taking the seat opposite her.

"Am I a hypocrite? I want to pay my own way, but I
love
this jet."

"If it will make you feel any better, give the money you would have spent on a plane ticket to charity."

Quinn felt a wave of shame that she hadn't thought of that herself. Her head had been filled with ideas of a new lens for her camera or an upgrade of her photography software. For her, the amount of money wasn't life changing. But for someone in need, it could make all the difference. There was a shelter for battered women that she had donated to in the past. As soon as they landed, Quinn would transfer the money.

Unaware of his influence on her, Ryder strummed his ever-present guitar. Another thing Quinn had learned about him was that he was rarely without the instrument. Sometimes he simply played. Most of the time, Ryder jotted down notes. Quinn woke that morning to find him sitting near the window of his hotel room. Bathed in the light of the rising sun, his head was bent over the guitar, his fingers in motion. Next to him was his phone, recording every note.

They were more alike than Quinn had realized. Ryder and his guitar. She and her camera. Without disturbing him, Quinn slipped from the bed. She forgot she was naked. All she could think about was capturing the man and his music.

The bag was exactly where Quinn knew it would be—never far from her sight. She took her camera, removed the lens cover, and focused on Ryder. For a second, she became lost in his beauty—his utter concentration. Shirtless and wearing only a pair of faded jeans, the sun made his dark hair glow—shining with a touch of red and gold. Ryder's profile was perfectly outlined. His head was tilted in her direction. His eyes were closed. And his lips moved slightly as though he sang along to the tune he created.

Quinn's breath caught in her throat. He was so beautiful. Inside and out. Bringing the camera to her eye, she took the first picture. Then another. And another. She circled Ryder, catching him from every angle. However, she kept her distance, not wanting to disturb him.

Who knew how many shots she took or how much time passed? Then, without warning, Ryder lifted his head, looking her way. Quinn caught the moment before she finally lowered her camera. The look in Ryder's eyes took her breath away. Intense—almost wild. His gaze never wavering, Ryder set aside his guitar. He stood and held out his hand. Mesmerized, Quinn left her camera on the table. Not a word was spoken. None were necessary. She walked into Ryder's arms, her mouth meeting his.

What happened next wasn't sex. It was more. A coming together of two souls. At least that was how it felt to Quinn. She couldn't say if Ryder were affected the same way. They hadn't spoken of it. Hours later, Quinn was still a little shaky. And Ryder? His smile was easy, his manner matter-of-fact. If anything had changed, Quinn feared it was only on her side.

Quinn shook off her wandering musings. She had made a promise to herself, and she wasn't going to break it. Ryder was a temporary situation. Her flight from reality. If it lasted a few weeks or blew up in her face tomorrow, Quinn would have no regrets. It was about living in the here and now.

"Are you certain you brought enough clothes?"

Quinn's eyes narrowed. She knew sarcasm when she heard it.

"It was your idea to stop in San Francisco," she reminded Ryder.

"I know," Ryder sighed, plucking out a three-chord lament. "You would have been happy making do with what you already had with you."

"All I needed was a laundromat and a supply of quarters."

Quinn laughed at Ryder's horrified expression. All things considered—the money, the adulation, the worldwide fame—he was surprisingly down to Earth. However, he liked the perks that came with his lifestyle. It seemed public laundry facilities were near the top of Ryder's
hell no
list.

"If you've ever spent the night in one of those places, it will make you avoid them like the plague," he had explained. "I saw a man urinate on an entire row of chairs. Then for good measure, take a dump in a dryer."

Since Ryder's tone was light, Quinn laughed. However, it wasn't her first reaction. There was a time when Ryder had been homeless. What he had seen—what had happened to him—made her want to weep for that boy. And it made her admire the man he had fashioned himself into.

"As long as you insisted, I saw no reason I shouldn't bring something for any contingency. Cora is an expert with the social curve ball."

Unable to resist, Quinn took Ryder's picture. He had such an expressive face. Ever changing and oh, so photogenic. Quinn could have made a fortune from the photos she had taken today alone. But she had no plans for them to see the light of day. This morning especially. Those were too private—too personal. She would file them away.
For her eyes only
.

"Your stepmother sounds like a piece of work."

"Cora was my father's secretary—while he was married to wife number two." When Ryder lifted an eyebrow, Quinn nodded. "I know. The ultimate cliché. The affair wasn't the only reason for the divorce. However, it was the final blow. Dad married Cora because he hates to be single and by the luck of the draw, she was the last mistress standing."

"In other words, there were others before Cora?" Ryder pushed the button on the intercom.

Quinn shrugged. "Before. During."

The air hostess arrived. Deena Branch was the same pretty, red-haired woman who Quinn had met during the tour. She was efficient, professional, and seemingly unimpressed by her famous employer. Notepad in hand, she took down Ryder's request for water and a fruit plate. "What would you like, Quinn?"

"Nothing. Thank you."

Though it had been awhile since lunch, for once Quinn wasn't hungry. Thinking about her father and his many peccadilloes had a way of ruining her appetite.

"Bring enough for two, Deena. Did the cookies arrive?"

"They did, Mr. Hart. Just before takeoff."

"Bring them, too."

"Cookies?" Hungry or not, Quinn couldn't resist asking.

"There's a bakery down by Fisherman's Wharf. They make something called a Caramel Pecan Dream."

"
Peirson's
?"

"That's the place. Do you know it?"

Did she
? Quinn would go out of her way for the smell alone. The cookie Ryder was talking about was one of her favorites.

"I may be able to force one down."

Ryder smiled. She wasn't fooling him. The man had seen her eat. He knew as well as she did that one would not be enough.

"Continue what you were saying about Cora."

"There isn't much to tell. Cora is pretty. Ambitious. My father thinks that she's a piece of harmless fluff."

Deena returned. Thanking her, Ryder took the plate of cookies, handing one to Quinn.

"But…?" he urged.

"Cora is smart. Smart enough to have landed a big fish for a husband. And smart enough to know her chances of holding onto him for long are slim. Dad will stay married—someday. When he's too old to care about the chase. But that day is not now."

"I take it your sympathy does not lie with your stepmother." Ryder took the top off a bottle of water before offering it to her.

"Thanks," Quinn smiled at his thoughtfulness. "This marriage has lasted five years. I'm not the only one who knows it is quickly approaching its sell-by date."

"You don't get along?"

"I tolerate her. She hates my guts."

Ryder paused between bites of melon. "Then why does she want you at her party? I got the impression Cora was the one pushing for your attendance."

"Cora likes to think that her marriage to my father is a major thorn in my butt. What better gift to herself than the chance to dig that thorn a little deeper?"

"Does your father know her motives?"

Quinn bit off a piece of the cookie. "I might as well show up wearing a big, red bow."

"Fuck this." Ryder balled up his napkin, throwing it to the ground. "I'll have the pilot keep going. New York? Miami? London is a go, though we will need to stop and refuel."

"I promised my father I would be there." Quinn was touched by Ryder's vehement response. "I'm a big girl, Ryder. Cora thinks her claws are sharp, but the truth is, they have all the scratching power of a newborn kitten. Besides, this visit will satisfy my father for the foreseeable future. The next time I see him, Cora will likely be a distant memory."

"Is there such a thing as a normal family?"

"No. Just varying degrees of screwed up."

The sadness Quinn felt was more for Ryder than herself.
Her
father, for all his narcissistic bombast, veered toward sainthood when compared to Ryder's.

"Indiana it is." Surprising her, Ryder took her hand, pulling her onto his lap.

"You still have the option of sparing yourself. Drop me off in Indianapolis. I can meet up with you in few days."

Ryder began unbuttoning the front of Quinn's shirt. "You already texted your father that you were bringing a guest."

"Mmm," Quinn sighed as his mouth kissed the hollow at the base of her throat. "He won't care. In fact, I doubt he read the text."

"You're stuck with me."

Ryder slid his fingers through her hair until his hand cupped the back of her head. His kiss was deep, thorough, and arousing. By the time he pulled away, Quinn's breath was coming fast.

"Putting up with having you around will be a hardship," Quinn sighed, her eyes sparkling. "But if I must, I must."

MINNOW, INDIANA WAS a lovely town. Clean streets were lined with neatly trimmed trees and well-tended patches of weed-free beds of brightly headed flowers. Though Quinn's memories were few, she had lived here until her parent's divorce.

Belinda Abernathy took Quinn and the large monetary settlement that her cheating husband had been required to pay out, to California. Along with the monthly alimony payments and child support checks, she proceeded to settle in a small town quite similar to Minnow.

It was an irony Quinn found amusing. But wisely, she kept that to herself. She loved her mother dearly, however, when it came to Michael Abernathy, she had no sense of humor. Or perspective. Their divorce had become final over twenty years ago. They never spoke and had little contact of any kind. Yet her ex-husband was a wound that never seemed to heal. Belinda hated the man. Hated that Quinn had anything to do with him.

Quinn had spoken to her mother that morning. However, she did not mention that she was on her way to Indiana to see her father. It was best for Belinda's sanity—and Quinn's.

"So this is small town America." Ryder looked out the window as though he was observing alien lifeforms. "I always wondered what it was like to live in Mayberry."

Quinn laughed. She loved the way Ryder pulled references out of the blue. "You won't find Barney Fife or Opie strolling
these
sidewalks."

"It looks so…"

"Wholesome?"

Ryder scoffed. "I doubt it. I can guarantee you that there is some kinky stuff going on behind those closed doors."

"How do you know?"

"Some of my biggest fans come from towns like this one. The stuff they put in their letters would curdle your yogurt."