Shelby and I raise our eyebrows at each other and shrug. We give the cashier our order—blueberry-banana for me, coconut strawberry for Shelby—and Cash waits by the door until we get our drinks.
The three of us walk out into the warm night air. It’s still light out into the evening hours, but not as late at night as it was when I first got home. The days are definitely getting shorter now. Summer will be ending soon, and I’ll miss it, though I’m looking forward to fall in the South again, all the lush green trees turning red and orange and yellow, the smell of pine cutting through the chilly air. Bundling up for barbecues and seeing your breath in the early morning, and, of course, University of Georgia football. In England, the changing of seasons was both a relief and a heartbreak for the same reason: I often felt like I was just waiting for time to pass, like a prisoner marking off days on the cell wall, glad they’re behind her, but a little sad that they didn’t mean anything either.
But now, strolling down the street of my hometown with friends, a little sweaty, a little tired, but a little energized, too, I realize for the first time in a long time I’m just happy in the moment. And that’s a relief. No more heartbreak.
As we walk back toward the yoga studio, where Shelby’s car is still parked, Cash tells us about his idea to open an alcoholic juice bar. “The drinks would be like these, but with shots.”
“Like a tequila sunrise,” Shelby says.
“Or a Cape Cod,” I say.
“Bloody Marys,” Shelby says.
“Yes, all those drinks exist, but I’m talking about making them really good,” Cash says, shaking his head in exasperation. “Like, freshly squeezed juice.”
“So, like, healthy but also you’ll get drunk,” Shelby says.
“Exactly,” Cash says.
We arrive at the yoga studio. Jackson waits by the door.
“Okay, now Cash, maybe, would strike a downward dog in hopes of getting some poor girl into tabletop position later tonight,” Shelby says. She points to Jackson. “But I know not even getting laid is reason for you to do yoga, so something’s up.”
“Can’t I just accidentally run into my sister and my friend?” Jackson says, hugging Shelby, then me, in his grey suit and white collared shirt. He and Cash exchange a look.
“I saw that,” I say.
“Saw what?” Cash says.
“Something’s going on,” I say to Shelby. I take her hand and we walk around to the back of the yoga building, Jackson and Cash following behind.
In the parking lot, Ryder stands next to Shelby’s car, waiting.
I cock my head. “You just happen to be in the neighborhood, too?”
“We just wanted to make sure y’all were okay,” he says. He smiles in his white V-neck t-shirt and jeans, his feet and arms crossed as he leans back on the car.
I roll my eyes, even though I can’t help smiling, too. “Cute,” I say. “But we’re fine. I swear.”
“You guys are sweet to want to keep Cassie safe,” Shelby says, “but am I supposed to take that as a slight against my fighting skills?”
“Yeah, what the hell?” I say, tossing an arm around Shelby’s shoulders. “You think we can’t brawl if we need to?” I flex my bicep.
Ryder walks toward us. He kisses my bared arm muscle. “That’s good,” he says. “But what if someone does this?” He bends and scoops me up at my knees and tosses me over his shoulder, holding me on the backs of my thighs and my ass. Thank God I wore pants instead of shorts to yoga. “Where are your biceps now?”
I laugh and pound my fists on his back as he carries me to his car. “Okay,” I say, “Okay. You win.”
“Always,” he says. He sets me down at the driver’s side and frames my face between his hands as he kisses me, to the grade-school Ooohs of Shelby and Jackson and Cash.
“They’re going to think you like me,” I say to him, smiling.
“Then they’re going to be right.” He opens my door, buckles me in with another kiss, and we wave to everyone as we drive back to his place for the night.
CASSIE
CH. 27
The next afternoon at Altitude, as I start my lunch break, Ryder introduces me to Gunner, who may be one of the tallest men I’ve ever met in my life. When he shakes my hand, it disappears completely below my wrist.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. He nods. The strong but silent type, I guess.
“Gunner’s one of my best fighters,” Ryder says, “and he also helps with security at the warehouse sometimes. He knows some FBI guys at the Atlanta Bureau who can help us figure out where Sebastian is and what threat level he might be.”
“’Threat level’?” I say. “He’s not a terrorist.”
“He is a terrorist,” Ryder says. “He terrorizes you.”
“Not really,” I say, embarrassed to be having this conversation in front of a stranger. Embarrassed to be having it at all, actually.