Page 127 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
“I’m just taking pictures.”
“No.” He raises his eyes to meet mine, and I freeze with my finger on the shutter button. “You’re seeing something. That’s different.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I take the shot instead.Click.
Through the viewfinder, Ryder is looking directly at me now. Not at some distant point, or lost in thought. At me. And the intensity in his gaze makes my hands unsteady.
I lower the camera slowly.
“Your shirt collar,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than intended. “It’s sticking up on one side.”
Ryder reaches up to fix it, fumbling with the fabric. “Like this?”
“No, the other...” I trail off, frustrated. “Here, let me.”
I set the camera on my desk and cross the distance between us. It’s not until I’m standing directly in front of him, my fingers reaching for his collar, that I realize how close we are. The window seat puts him at the perfect height, making us almost at eye level. My hand brushes against the fabric of his shirt, smoothing down the collar where it’s folded wrong.
“There,” I whisper.
But I don’t step back.
My hands still rest against his collar, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric. This close, I see everything. The slight stubble along his jaw, the way his breathing has changed, and the silver chains rising and falling against his chest.
“Alice.” My name comes out quiet, almost careful.
I should move. I should pick up my camera and return to the safety of the lens between us.
Instead, my hands slide from his collar to rest against his chest. Under my palm, I feel his heartbeat. It’s quick and strong, matching my own.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, my voice barely audible.
“That’s okay.” Ryder’s hands come up slowly, hovering near my waist but not quite touching, as if he’s giving me every opportunity to pull away. “Neither do I.”
“This morning I was at therapy. I was given the police report for the first time. I couldn’t even read it.” The words spill out desperately. “The lines were jumbled and blurred. Just like they do at school. I used to be really good at school. I was a good student. I’m not someone who walks out before classes are over.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You’ve only seen this mess.”
“You’re not a mess.” His hands finally settle on my waist, gentle and grounding. “You’re hurting.”
“I feel like I’m underwater and I can’t tell which way is up.”
“Then let me help you find the surface.”
His thumb brushes against my side, just above my hip, and the simple touch sends ripples of warmth through me.
“I think I might be using you,” I whisper, the confession tearing out of me. “To feel something other than broken.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should care.”
“Maybe.” His other hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. “But I don’t.”
I lean into his touch without meaning to, and my eyes flutter closed. His palm is comforting against my face.
“Look at me,” Ryder says softly.
