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Chapter Five
Dylan
I watch the truck pull down the mile-long drive, from the comfort and safety of the home’s second floor family room.
I’ve been expecting him.
Sure, I knew he was coming, thanks to Charleigh—regardless of my hopes this morning, after he failed to show up last night, that he’d changed his mind—but I was also alerted to his arrival thanks to the gate at the end of the drive. Whenever it’s opened by keypad, a small ding sounds in the house.
Just one of the many safety features the house boasts.
I knew of Cade Johnston.
I mean, who didn’t?
His rise to fame was quick.
Men wanted to be him.
Women wanted to be with him.
But even before he had Hollywood in his back pocket, he had similar reactions when he was pro-dirt bike rider. His name was once upon a time found alongside other current riding greats.
At sixteen, he made a name for himself.
Motocross king.
By eighteen, he made a new name for himself.
Hollywood heartthrob.
So, when the man in the long-sleeved shirt and baggy shorts stepped down from the obviously-lifted truck—boys will be boys—I wasn’t expecting the quick pitter-patter stumble my heart made in my chest.
It’s not like I can even make him out clearly from up here.
He has dark sunglasses over his eyes, and a baseball cap on his head, backward. From my vantage point, I can see his hair is longer, curling over the edges of his hat.
The picture of Cade in front of me is a far-cry from the red-carpet pictures that litter the internet.
Hell, even his TMZ shots, he’s dressed better than he is now.
This Cade looks like the one from images dated four, five years ago. The ones from his racing days.
The very ones I scrolled through last night.
He’s on the phone, and I watch as the man talks with his hands. For whatever reason, this makes me smile.
Stop.
Just as quick, my molars grind down, and I pinch my lips into a scowl.
I’m not a fan of his gender.
And it’s better for me to remember that.
To remind myself.
With the sleeves of my well-worn hoodie grasped between my fingers and palms, I cross my arms over my chest. I’ve gotten accustomed to walking around this place with just tank tops and shorts, but nothing says, “Hey, look here. This is why I can’t do your movie!” faster than a shirt that molds itself to your stomach.
