We leave my cabin and cross the parking lot, gravel crunching under his heavy boots. The security teams are at the camp entrance, monitoring every exit. My pulse quickens. Dante leads me to his blacked-out Range Rover.
“After you.” He opens my door, offering his hand to help me up.
My mama would swoon over his southern-boy manners. Though I’ve carefully avoided mentioning Dante in any of my weekly calls with my parents.
His hand lightly touches my back, and I rocket into the car.
He slides behind the wheel. “Buckle up,” he says, not starting the engine until he hears the click.
“How exactly are we dodging my bodyguard, Ramsey? Let alone the rest of security.”
He leans over, his bare arm hovering inches above my thigh. I fixate on the hair at the nape of his neck, wanting to run my fingers through it.
He yanks my seat lever, and I drop backward, gasping as he stares above me.
“There,” he says plainly, like he isn’t the reason my heart is beating in my throat and at the base of my stomach.
“This is your master plan? Really?”
“One more thing.” He pulls off his hoodie in one fell swoop.
“If someone catches me hiding in your car…” The threat hangs unfinished.
“They won’t.” His playful tone shifts to something more serious. “I’ve got you. Now cover up.” Without warning, he drapes his hoodie over me.
Every muscle in my body tenses and then melts because I’m engulfed in him. His warmth lingers in the fabric, wrapping around me. I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling.
For a split second, I imagine what his weight would be like pressing me into this seat, what it would be like if his fingers wrapped around my thighs instead of that lever. My pulse matches the purr of the engine as I lie under my trainer’s jacket, escaping from set. Without Ramsey’s protective shadow, something wild and forbidden unfurls in my chest.
We drive for a while as I lie there, completely still. But beneath the soft gray cotton of his hoodie, I’m smiling—because deep down, I’m having fun.
“You can sit up now, Thelma,” he says.
I do, fixing the seat upright while keeping his hoodie draped over my lap.
“Nowthatis a movie I’d love to be in the remake of.” I roll down the window, letting the crisp forest air whip through my hair.
“Rebellion looks good on you,” he says, shooting me a wink.
We wind our way through towering redwoods, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in scattered beams as French techno music fills the car. The trees gradually thin until suddenly the coastline appears—a stunning expanse of blue ocean meeting the horizon. That’s when a cheerful yellow stand catches my eye. Hand-painted red letters read,Mama Jones’ Biscuits.
Biscuits?Out here?
All the effort I spent maintaining my collected attitude falters in the face of proper carbohydrates.
“Pull over,” I demand, already reaching for my seatbelt. “Now.”
“Since when do you give the orders?”
“Since there’s butter and honey involved. Stop the darn car before I grab the wheel myself.”
He swerves off the road, tires crunching gravel. I adjust my baseball cap and sunglasses, already halfway to the stand whenhe calls out, “Running away again? And here I thought we were making progress.”
The double meaning in his voice makes me smile, but I don’t turn back.
Once I reach the stand, my heart doubles in size. Fresh-baked buttermilk biscuits, rows of homemade jams, and the kind of authentic, small-town charm that’s impossible to find in LA. The aroma of butter-brushed tops and honey brings back memories of Sunday mornings in New Orleans.
“Hello, darlin’.” The elderly lady at the stand gives me a beaming smile that reminds me of home.
