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Once we’re inside and the gates close behind us, I push myself to make it up the sloped driveway. Tomorrow, my body will hate me. But my biggest concern is Riley and how he’ll feel about me—about us.
I push the button to open the garage. We park the bikes inside and walk toward the house.
Riley’s posture remains stiff.
“I don’t know what this means for you, but I assume it’s not good.”
“No,” he murmurs. “I need to contact my former handler.”
“Handler? Like FBI?” I’ve seen enough movies and shows to know what the word means.
Riley nods as we enter the side door and continue into the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator, grabs a bottled fruit protein smoothie, and hands it to me. “You should drink this.”
Even with the stress of what just happened, he still thinks of me and my hypoglycemia. And now I’ve possibly put him in danger.
“Thank you.” I take the smoothie and wipe the sweat from my face with a paper towel.
“Riley, what can I do to help?” I ask, desperate to make this better for him. My hands shake as I twist off the top, a sign that I need sugar, and I guzzle the cold drink.
His skin glistens with a little sweat—nothing like my dripping shit-show—and his features pucker with thought. He runs his hands through his hair. Here under the lights of the kitchen, I can see the way the strands fall around his face and eyes, like I wanted to see when we were back on the beach, only the tension-filled moment ruins my enjoyment.
His navy gaze finds mine, as if he just registered my question. “Nothing. This isn’t your fault. I agreed to go.”
The natural sugars in the drink kick in and my muscles feel stronger. “It was my idea to take the bikes.”
He shakes his head. “This isn’t your fault,” he repeats, his eyes unfocused, as if he’s still processing what happened.
I don’t know what to say or do to fix this. Never have I felt so helpless. Paparazzi is a difficult part of this life. I learned that at an early age but until this moment, I’ve never hated their existence this much.
“How bad will this cause problems for you?” I ask, not wanting to pry into his business, but needing something.
“I’m not sure.” He sighs, then blinks and meets my concerned gaze. “I need to take care of some things. Are you good?”
I nod, hating this change of events. “We never should have left the house,” I murmur and lower my head.
Riley slips a finger under my chin and lifts my face until I meet his gaze. “This isn’t your fault, but it does change things. Let’s get cleaned up and then we can talk.”
“About?” I have to force myself not to grab his hand when his finger falls from my chin.
“Shower. Eat if you need to, then meet me in the pool house.”
He walks away, leaving me chilled, even in my sweat-soaked skin.
One minute, we were happy, making out on the beach, talking about showering together, and now we’re separated by an imminent social media disaster that could ruin his life. I’ll get over the headlines. I’m used to this, not that it’ll be easy or enjoyable, but I’ll deal. Riley is out of his element and possibly in danger now because of me and my stupid idea to take the bikes.
