Page 15 of Slapshot Bride

The drive over is quiet, unlike the last time we were in the car together. Riley sits in the passenger seat in my hoodie and shorts with her hair still up and her hands wrapped around a travel mug, and she watches LA go by like she has not seen it in a while.

My phone buzzes again on the dashboard. I flip it face down before I have fully registered that I'm doing it.

“You really don't like that phone,” she says, conversationally, not looking at me.

“Let’s just say, I’m not a fan of the notifications.”

“You might as well turn them off,” she offers.

“Yeah, I should. But then I’d miss all of my mom’s texts and probably never have a use for the device without those.”

I finish the sentence before I realize I’ve given too much. Thankfully, she lets it go.

I pull around the back of the boutique into the small private lot. Cut the engine.

“Okay,” I start. “The owner is going to come out and meet us at the door. She knows we are coming. She's going to walk us straight in through the back. You don't have to interact with anyone you don't want to interact with. If at any point you want to leave, we leave. No questions.”

She's looking at me. Her hands are very still on the travel mug.

“You do this a lot?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know how to do this?”

“Educated guess. And one previous experience, helping a friend.”

“Hm.”

I open my door. I come around to her side but her door is already open. I take her hand instinctively, scan the area, before I lead her away, after closing the door behind.

When I realize I’m holding her, I let her go, but the warmth… I immediately miss it. Her small fingers wrapped around mine, and her figure so close to mine.

Stop it, Easton. I don’t need to hear that twice to get my head out of my ass.

We start across the small lot toward the boutique’s back door.

But then, her hand finds my forearm.

It's so fast I almost miss it. A small grip just above my wrist, fingertips, not the whole hand. I stop and look at her. That’s when I notice it. They’re trembling again.

“E-Easton...”

I follow her eyeline.

Across the street, on the corner, there is a man with a camera. Not a phone. An actual long-lens camera, slung at his hip but not pointed at us yet, the body of it angled in the half-position that says he's waiting to decide if we are worth lifting it for.

There is also a second one further down. Same posture. Similar camera.

“Hey…” I turn to look at her face, angling my body to fully conceal her as best as I can.

“He found us.”

“No.” I keep my voice flat. “He did not find us. The photos found us. There is a difference, and I will explain it to you in the car. Right now, we are going to walk to that door.”

“Easton, I-I can’t.”

“Come on, sweetheart, you can.” The endearment slips past my lips without permission.